


The Paths You Take

by CosmicOcelot



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Dancing, Found Family Dynamics, Hostage Situations, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kidnapping, M/M, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, Slow Burn, no beta we die like renfri, not between main pair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:53:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26640202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicOcelot/pseuds/CosmicOcelot
Summary: “Oh, thank the gods,” Jaskier breathes.“Name’s Lambert, actually,” the witcher corrects, his lips breaking into a crooked grin, “Though I certainly won’t stop you from worshipping me.”Complete!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 144
Kudos: 2010
Collections: Angsty Angst Times, Geralt is Sorry, Just.... So cute...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, hope you enjoy this fic! I'm basing Lambert's character after game!Lambert, and what I've seen of him so far.  
> Mind the tags you go

He definitely drowned multiple kittens in a previous life.

There’s no other explanation for the hatred Destiny seems to have for him, turning a nice stroll through a forest on his way to the next town into a life or death battle. Not that Jaskier is entirely unused to this sort of caper, but this one involves a thing with entirely too many teeth to be justified in a single mouth, and claws that are practically the size of his entire body. And wouldn’t you know it? He’s left his witcher on the top of a mountain fuck knows how many miles away from his soon-to-be untimely death.

So here he is, lying flat on his back, fire arching through the tear in his flesh that _just the very tip_ of the damn thing’s claws managed to make. His lungs burning just as fierce from running till his legs gave out. And there are useless, frustrated tears gathering in his eyes as he waits for the creature to just hurry up and finish what it fucking started –

A horrible, strangled cry pierces Jaskier’s eardrums, and he has a moment to think that at least now he can add ‘deaf as a doorknob’ to his earthly woes before he comes to his imminent and violent conclusion.

But then, all of a sudden, the cry abruptly cuts off. And though the silence that follows is also near deafening in comparison, Jaskier can still make out the footsteps that crunch through the undergrowth before a face hovers above him, its features blocked out by the sun behind it.

“Still alive, huh?”

If not for the fact that breath still seems uneager to entertain his lungs, Jaskier’s lips would already be halfway through forming a reply of such pronounced wit that this stranger would either bow his head in shame to his superior intelligence or slit his throat out of bewildered frustration.  
  
So, all in all, perhaps it’s a good thing that all Jaskier can do for the moment is try and coax a deep breath into his lungs, before pushing himself upwards and off the ground. 

“Whoa, easy.” The figure moves to his side, crouching down and keeping a hand on Jaskier’s chest, not pressing him back to the ground, but definitely holding him in place. “You might not be able to see yourself right now, but trust me, you look like you went ten rounds with a wyvern.”

“You should see the other... _thing_ ,” Jaskier slurs, pressing a hand to his forehead, dizziness and pain still making his head reel.

“I did.” The stranger sounds almost... _impressed_. “Found your dagger by the way, stuck real deep inside the son of a bitch. Gotta hand it to you, seems like you really gave it your all.”  
  
“Thanks.” Jaskier removes his hand from his face and turns to peer blearily at the rather kind stranger –

His breath dies in his throat as his eyes catch on the silver medallion resting on the stranger’s chest. For a moment, he panics, thinking that perhaps he just didn’t recognize the voice, after all, it’s been so long since –

But though the eyes he meets are that same golden colour, the pupils the same cat-like slits, they’re set in a face completely different to the one he’s expecting.

Relief crashes through him, almost as dizzying as the chase had been, and he sees the apprehension in the stranger’s face given way to confusion at the sight. Obviously, his kind are used to something far removed from relief when another meets their eyes.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Jaskier breathes.

“Name’s Lambert, actually,” the witcher corrects, his lips breaking into a crooked grin, “Though I certainly won’t stop you from worshipping me.”

Jaskier laughs, loud and with a more than slight manic edge, and he’s still laughing when the darkness reaches up and swallows him whole. 

* * *

Dim lamplight paints the wooden ceiling above a soft amber when Jaskier opens his eyes again, and for a moment he thinks that he might have just dreamed the whole thing.

Then he tries to sit up, winces at the tug on his wound the movement causes, and lies back down on the bed with a sigh.  
  
“Never had someone faint at the sight of me before.” The voice makes Jaskier damn near jump out of his skin, only now aware of the shadowy figure leaning against the opposite wall. “Gotta say, it’s extremely flattering.”

Recognizing the voice to be the witcher from before, Jaskier relaxes slightly, his heart ceasing its efforts to flee his chest in fright. “Thrilled as I am to boost your ego, I suspect the whole nearly-being-devoured thing had significantly more to do with it, Sir – ” Jaskier pauses, turning his head to face the stranger. “What was your name again?”

“Lambert.” The witcher makes his way over to a small table in front of the fire, snatching an apple from a bowl in its centre while his other hand twirls a dagger – _Jaskier’s_ dagger. “And I wouldn’t move around too much if I were you, gotta give that scratch of yours time to heal.”

Jaskier grumbles under his breath. “Rather more than a _scratch_ , I should think – ”

“Then you’d think wrong,” Lambert cuts him off, taking a crunching bite of his apple as he continues to cross the room toward him. “I’m torn between awarding you points for _only_ ending up with a scratch, or chalking it up to blind luck. If it’s luck, then I have to ask if you have some sort of death wish.”  
  
“I wasn’t aware that witchers _had_ to do anything,” Jaskier replies. “Other than slice up the occasional devil for some coin.”

“True,” Lambert chuckles dryly, “though, you left out the whole ‘eating children part’.”

“It’s not leaving it out if it isn’t true to begin with,” Jaskier mutters, letting out another aggravated sigh. “Really, thank you for your assistance, but I assure you, it was entirely unnecessary. I had the matter well in hand.”

Lambert snorts, raising his eyebrows. “So, you’re a comedian then.”

“Bard, actually.”

“Then tell me, _bard_ ,” Lambert moves a chair from the table over to Jaskier’s bed, the wood groaning slightly under his weight as he settles down in it, “are you always this mouthy with the people that save your life?”

“It’s sort of my brand at this point,” Jaskier drawls, using a slight smirk to try and obscure the gnawing hollow pit in his gut that grows ever stronger at all the visceral reminders that Lambert, that this witcher, brings with him. “Can’t see any reason to change tactics now.”

“Fair enough.” Lambert shrugs, watches him for a moment before giving Jaskier’s dagger one last twirl and holding it out to him, hilt first. “Figured you might want this back, seeing as it’s the only reason you still draw breath.”

“Thoughtful of you.” Jaskier reaches forward and takes it back, groaning when his fingers brush over the crack in the hilt. “ _Damn conman_. I _knew_ I should have taken my business elsewhere.”

Lambert raises an eyebrow. “I think using that letter opener to try and slay a wyvern might have voided its warranty.”

“That’s quite beside the point.” Jaskier traces his fingertip along the blade gently, looking for any chips or cracks in the metal. “And I didn’t intend to slay anything! But considering the only other option was giving the dratted winged rat my life, I didn’t have much of a choice, seeing as I was, and still am, very much attached to it – ah!”

Jaskier jerks his hand away with a short cry of pain, his finger having caught on a chip in the metal, but before he can put it in his mouth to try and stem the flow of blood, Lambert catches his wrist and holds in place with a roll of his eyes. “Yeah, could’ve told you that was going to happen.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Jaskier rolls his own eyes.  
  
“You’re welcome.” Lambert wraps a bit of cloth around the finger. “And you’re fine. It’s more paper-cut than scratch.”

“I dread to think what you would call a _wound_ ,” Jaskier deadpans, ignoring Lambert’s smirk to properly gaze around the room. “Where are we?”

“Closest inn.” Lambert releases his wrist and leans back slightly. “Thought it might be bad form to leave you bleeding out in the middle of the road. Might’ve attracted ghouls or something.”

“My saviour,” Jaskier says dryly. “So honourable and noble. Small wonder I’ve yet to hear any ballads that carry your name in their melody.”

A brief shadow passes over Lambert’s face before it disappears with another shrug of his shoulders. “Yeah, well, pretty sure the Continent only needs one wolf to sing about.”

Jaskier stiffens at the reminder, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by Lambert, who cocks his head at Jaskier, eyebrow raised. “Not a fan of the White Wolf? Not surprising, seems I can’t take two steps without hearing that insufferable coin song – ”

“ _Insufferable_?” Jaskier stares at Lambert, very much affronted. That song had taken him a week to properly compose and refine. A week full of death glares when his fingers so much as rested against the strings of his lute, and grunted threats of bodily harm if he continued to talk a mile a minute every second of the day. His feet following the hoofprints in the dirt and the broad shoulders and long white hair in front of him. All the while trying at every and any opportunity to get another glance at those wonderful eyes –

Lambert sees the look on Jaskier’s face and rolls his eyes. “Right, bard, I forgot. You probably think the damn ballad’s a masterpiece that you’re just dying to re-create with your own words – ”

“They _are_ my own words,” Jaskier snaps hotly. “And they deserve a hell of a lot better than _insufferable._ Honestly, do all witchers have no appreciation for music – ?”  
  
“Your words.” Lambert interrupts Jaskier’s tirade, staring at him with his brow furrowing, and the bard realizes his mistake too late – continuing the running theme of his life.

Destiny must be so proud.

“You’re Geralt’s – ”

“Well!” Jaskier quickly averts his gaze from Lambert, moving to push himself up and off the bed. “This – this has been... well, thank you again for your assistance, I’ll not take up anymore of your time – ”

He tries to stand and this time can’t escape the cry that slips past his lips as pain shoots through him, legs giving way and bringing him down to the hard, wooden floorboards –

Hands grip his waist, guiding him back down on the bed with a careful gentleness that seems entirely at odds with everything Jaskier has seen and heard of their owner so far.

“Could’ve told you that was going to happen as well.”

“Have I mentioned how incredibly helpful your foresight is?” Jaskier mutters, resting his head back against the pillow and closing his eyes.

Silence covers them both for a moment, and Jaskier works very hard to keep his breathing even and steady – aware that Lambert can see every twitch and tremor that could give away the game Jaskier’s trying so desperately to keep hidden. Then again, isn’t the game already up? He and Geralt have twenty years between them, twenty winters that Geralt and this Lambert have spent together at Kaer Morhen, twenty winters for Geralt to pour out his hatred of the bard to his brothers – for him to darkly mutter the same words that he roared at Jaskier. And the thought of others knowing just how long he had clung to a man that so obviously despised him... well. It makes him feel even more humiliated than he already had, something that Jaskier hadn’t thought possible. And it stings like salt in an old wound that refuses to recognize its age and heal the fuck up already.

Lambert stands up, taking the dagger from Jaskier and placing it on the table, and for a moment Jaskier thinks that will be the end of it. Lambert will take his things and leave without another word in silent solidarity with his brother against the man that had ruined his life so spectacularly – 

“Interested in a proposal, bard?”

Jaskier blinks, turning his head to face Lambert, taking a moment more to consider his reply. “Depends on the nature of it. If it’s romantic, I hate to break your heart, but I’m married quite exclusively to my lute, and if it’s sexual I’m afraid my _scratch_ rather rules out that possibility as well – ”

“Pretty cocky, aren’t you?” The words are dry, but Jaskier can see the smirk curling Lambert’s lips.

“So I’ve been told,” Jaskier returns, giving Lambert an overdramatic faux suggestive look that makes Lambert laugh. The laugh is a warm and rough thing, pulled deep from the witcher’s chest, that makes Jaskier’s hair stand on end with the memories it conjures.

Lambert must catch some sort of miniscule cue, the sort that Jaskier can’t ever hope to control, because the laugh is a short one. And a gentleness that makes Jaskier’s skin crawl makes itself known in Lambert’s gaze. 

“Well?” Jaskier pushes himself back up into a sitting position carefully, gracing Lambert with an arched eyebrow and a smirk, “I’m listening.”

* * *

  
Lambert is... very different to Geralt.

At the very least, he throws into question Jaskier’s previous theory that all witchers are dour, miserable bastards that try not to utter more than a single syllable at a time. The man talks, openly and quite… _jovially_. Lambert’s tone is dry, though more often than not betrayed by the little sparkle of mischief in his eyes. Like when he hands Jaskier another ale when they’ve both already had far too much or beats him at Gwent for the fifth time. And, Jaskier has to admit, perhaps there is something to his supposed gift of foresight after all, because his proposal seems to be working out quite well for all involved.  
  
They travel together with ease, Lambert placing himself between Jaskier and any danger that the bard’s silver tongue or new dagger can’t get him out of, Jaskier sweet talking innkeepers into letting the two of them save their coin and the contract givers into parting with more of theirs. He also composes the occasional ditty about Lambert’s adventures, small things at first – more short poems than songs, really. But once more and more of the months pass, and Jaskier feels he has a good fix on the man’s character, he starts to truly compose again. He sings of battles won, of trickery overcome, and of a man with kindness hidden behind acerbic wit and armour almost as thick as the wall wrapped around his heart.

Lambert refuses to let him sing the last one in public when he finally hears it, claiming that it would ‘ruin his reputation’ or some such nonsense. Jaskier rolls his eyes but acquiesces. After all, what’s one song in exchange for the plethora of material Lambert has provided him with?

The spend the night before they go their separate ways tucked up in a room that looks a lot like the first one that they ever shared. Jaskier idly strumming his lute as Lambert cleans his swords. In the morning, Jaskier will head to Oxenfurt for the comforts of academia, and Lambert will make his way to the cold reach of Kaer Morhen to settle in for the winter.

They haven’t made plans to meet up after the spring thaw comes, and Jaskier finds himself okay with that. This year has been fun, an adventure and a half, but part of any story is the end. And anyway, he’ll more likely than not see Lambert at some point in the future, seeing as how he has reason now not to drop his plans and flee at the first mention of a witcher. Besides, he can tell that Lambert is itching to travel on his own again, that familiar restlessness he’s witnessed in Geralt one too many times becoming that much more apparent over the past week. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t sting a bit, that his companion is so eager to leave him behind – _again_ – but really, it’s just... who they are, isn’t it? Witchers are solitary by nature, traveling alone rather than in pairs, no sense getting upset over a thing he has no power to change.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

“Jas.”

“Hmm?” Jaskier looks up from his lute to Lambert, who’s nervously looking everywhere but in Jaskier’s eyes, and despite all his rationalizations, Jaskier feels his heart sink.

Silence passes between them for a moment or two, before Jaskier breaks it with a feather touch, his soft voice almost embarrassingly loud between them. “For all my many merits, Lambert, I’ve yet to become a mind reader, so – ” Jaskier gets up and walks over to him with an ease that he doesn’t feel, sitting beside him on the bed, “ – out with it, already.”

Lambert seems to chew on whatever it is for a moment more before finally opening his mouth. “I came across something the other day; a device that allows one to keep the memory of a voice and play it whenever they wish.” He finally meets Jaskier’s eyes. “I want to keep your song about me.”

Jaskier’s mouth opens and closes without coherent words for a moment, that heavy weight in his heart and stomach replaced by a dizzying confusion that sends him scrambling to get his bearings.

“Right.” Jaskier stares at him for a moment before leaning back and cocking his head to the side. “Will you be taking my soul as well, oh, Sir Sea Witch?”

Lambert rolls his eyes. “The only danger to you is having a lousy performance recorded forever for all to hear.”

“How dare you, sir?” Jaskier’s hand flies to his chest in mock outrage. “I have never in my life given a performance that was anything short of flawless. Besides, I know the only ‘all’ you speak of is you and the others of Kaer Morhen.”

Lambert grimaces, before offering Jaskier a wry smile. “Am I really that easy to see through?”

“I could lie and say ‘only to a trained eye’ if you’d like. Try and save some of that precious pride of yours.” Jaskier leans back on his hands with a sigh. “As for your request, I’m more than happy to fulfil it. Just so long as you’re aware that this little plan of yours isn’t going to go as you hope.”

Lambert cocks his head to the side in a mockery of Jaskier’s previous movement. “And just what plan is that _, Sir Bard_?”

“Your plan to spend the winter annoying Geralt and turning him positively green with envy.” Jaskier closes his eyes briefly, his previous jovial air replaced by something more muted, old aches threatening to overwhelm for a moment before he pushes past them, opening his eyes and turning back to meet Lambert’s. “He’s never cared about having his name sung out across the Continent, and he won’t care that it’s your name now instead.”

“And if it’s not fame’s company that I’m aiming to make him envious of?” Lambert asks.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Then you’ve taken far too many knocks to the head, and whatever little sense you had has finally flown you for good.”

Lambert laughs. “Maybe, but sing for me anyway? And feel free to lord my failure over me when we meet again in the spring.”

Jaskier swallows down the surprise and... pathetic gratitude that rises up within him at that. For having someone willing to stay, willing to spend more than five minutes with him without growling for him to leave. For someone willing to be a friend.

“You say that now,” Jaskier drawls, instead of giving voice to the complicated mess within his chest, “but come spring you’ll be drinking an ale for every ‘I told you so’ I give you.” 

“Then it’s a good thing I have a strong stomach.” Lambert nudges him with his shoulder impatiently. “Now hurry up and sing already, before I change my mind.”

“Ah, how fortunate, I didn’t realize we had all the time in the world.”

“Jaskier.”

“Lambert.”

_“Sing.”_

And he does.

* * *

Winter has barely given way to spring by the time Jaskier finds himself waiting for Lambert at the inn with tankard in hand and all his _I told you so’s_ ready on his tongue. Though the sun graces them with its presence on a daily rather than weekly basis, it brings only light and not warmth with it, and there remains a chill in the air that seeps right into the bones of anyone caught out in it without a cloak for too long. Still, the clouds bring rain more often than they do hail or snow, and the first buds of flowers are beginning to poke through the ground. A promise of future daisies and dandelions and buttercups that will soon have the dark, dreary landscape awash with vibrant colour.

So, Jaskier had packed his things and made his way to an inn halfway between Oxenfurt and the mountains of Kaer Morhen, wrapped in as many layers as he could managed without falling over.

He blows on his spiced wine before taking a sip, relishing the warmth of it as it spreads down his throat and throughout his chest. All the while wondering whether to deliver his remarks in order of their wit or the devastation that they will leave in their wake –

“Is this seat taken?”

Jaskier nearly jumps out of his skin at the breath in his ear, barely managing to keep from spilling his drink all over himself, turning to glare at the grinning perpetrator. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t do that anymore.”

“Agreed?” Lambert hums thoughtfully, taking the seat next to Jaskier without ceremony, gesturing to the barkeep for some spiced wine, “Talked about it maybe. Anything further than that must have slipped my mind.”

“Yet another reason to have your head examined,” Jaskier mutters, shaking his head before raising an eyebrow at Lambert. “So? How did your little plot go over?”

Rather than grumpy or defeated or down-right sour like Jaskier is expecting, there’s an almost... nervous glint to Lambert’s eyes. “Remember that time I saved you from having your guts torn out by a wyvern?”

“I find near-death experiences have a habit of searing themselves into my mind so, no, not exactly a forgettable experience.” Jaskier finds his eyebrow arching higher, brow beginning to furrow slightly in confusion. “Why?”

Lambert’s gaze shifts from Jaskier to the door and back. “Just... keep that in mind for me, will you?”

“What are you – ” Understanding hits Jaskier upside the head with all the force of a sledgehammer. “Haha, no. No no no no. No – no. Lambert. You did _not_ – ”

The door to the inn swings open, creaking noisily on its hinges, and Jaskier turns and watches a cloaked figure with all too familiar eyes meet his own.

And Jaskier – he wants to run. Wants nothing more in this world than to scramble off his bar seat, push Lambert towards the man and flee into the hills. Because the spiced wine has turned sour on his tongue and the wound that he was so sure had healed throbs with agony all new – so much so that he finds himself checking the urge to search his chest for evidence of all the heartbreak he’s hemorrhaging once again.

But then a smaller cloaked figure catches his attention, eyes lighting up when they see him, a smile on their lips as they make their way towards him. And all Jaskier’s plans for escape go down in brilliant flames. 

He smiles back openly, forcing the words through his teeth, “I’m going to stab you.”

“Give it your best shot,” Lambert says into his tankard, glancing at Jaskier out of the side of his eyes with a smirk curling his lips. And Jaskier is helpless to even glare at him as the figures finally reach them.

“Hello Jaskier.”

Despite everything, at the sound of the familiar voice, Jaskier feels his smile get that much wider.

“Hello Ciri.”

* * *

“And... what happened next?” Over the past few hours, Ciri has moved from sitting next to him to leaning against him; barely able to keep her eyes open as she mumbles the words into his shirt.

“What else?” Jaskier asks softly, a far cry from the sweeping hand gestures and emphatic enunciation he performed for her at the beginning of the night. “She swung her blade down upon the creature: not at head or heart, but at just the right place for her to free the damsel from its grasp. Catching her with ease, she spun to pierce the beast’s heart with her sword, with her own heart back safe in her arms.”

Ciri seems satisfied with the story’s end, a smile pulling on her lips, but there’s a shadow of something in her tired eyes that Jaskier can’t quite place. “And they lived happily ever after?”

“Gods, no,” Jaskier shakes his head, wrinkling his nose. “Happily-ever-after is boring. No, the two of them gathered their wits and continued on their way together; slaying monsters and dancing under the moonlight as they went.”

Ciri’s eyes are closed now, and her words sound half dragged from the realm of dreams, and about as coherent. “Sounds like a happy ending to me.”

“Oh, it’s happy alright. But it’s not a true end, merely a... a _prelude_ to all the tales yet to be told.” Jaskier looks down at her, heart aching at the fatigue on her face, and nudges her gently. “Tales that will have to wait for another night, I think.”

Ciri shakes her head. “Just one more – ”

“Ciri.” Geralt stands, speaking his first words of the whole night, and moves over to Ciri and Jaskier’s side of the table. “Bed.”

Jaskier feels Ciri grip his shirt with all the strength of a dragon, mumbling something that sounds vaguely like a refusal before pressing her face further into his shoulder. 

“Come on,” He shifts her carefully towards Geralt, ignoring her protests, “up you go.”

It takes some doing and they inevitably brush against each other in the process, Jaskier trying very hard not to think about anything except the task at hand. Ignoring how their fingers brush against each other, or how Geralt’s breath comes so quiet even this close that Jaskier might have thought he was holding it if not for the slight movement of Geralt’s chest and shoulders. Eventually, Geralt has her secure in his arms, her head resting against his chest.

But one small hand still grips Jaskier’s shirt.

“Don’t go.”  
  
Jaskier’s throat feels drier than it has in an age, his answer pulled from deep within him, somewhere dangerously close to his heart.

“I won’t.”

He reaches out a hand to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “Sweet dreams, Ciri.”

Ciri lets out a contented hum, lip curling upwards slightly as the last of the tension slips from her body and her hands falls from his shirt, allowing Geralt to escort her from the tavern. Jaskier watches them disappear from sight with a tightness in his chest, waiting until a few moments have passed before speaking.

“You know, I don’t recall any of this being a part of your little plot.”

Behind him, he hears Lambert shifts slightly. “Jaskier –”

“Come to meet you at the inn, you said.” Jaskier turns to face him, hands clenched tightly, “ _You_. Not you and – and – and _him_ , I –”

“I’m not fucking over the moon about it either. But this isn’t my fault.” Lambert cuts him off, his voice low, and Jaskier tries not to laugh at the thought of trying to keep this, any of it, from Geralt’s ears. “When I played the song, the girl recognized your voice from court and before I knew it, she and Geralt were dogging my heels as I made my way here. I tried to push them off, I swear, but they wouldn’t –”

Jaskier scoffs. “Months I hear you talk on and on about your talents and now all of a sudden slipping away from two people is too much for you?”

Lambert’s jaw clenches, eyes flaring, and Jaskier has time to feel a little vindictive thrill shoot up his spine before his expression shifts. And then those eyes are full of suffocating sympathy and Jaskier’s skin itches at the concerned set of the witcher’s jaw. 

“I can distract him for you, give you time to slip away – ”

“And what?” Jaskier laughs, harsh and discordant even to his own ears, and Lambert grows still at sound. “Break a promise to a child that has spent the past year having every other one ever made to her torn apart?”

Lambert shakes his head. “She isn’t your responsibility. No one will blame you if you leave.”

“ _I_ will.”

Silence takes over their conversation at that; their little table, devoid of any noise, at odds with the drunken revelry that occupies the rest of the tavern.

“It’ll be a week, maybe two at most,” Jaskier says to himself, “the appeal of familiarity will wear off and then... then she’ll be done with me and we can all go our separate ways.”

“I’ll join you.”

He turns to see Lambert has moved to stand beside him, the witcher giving him a slight smirk, before nudging his shoulder gently. “Give you someone pretty to stare at while you’re stuck with the old man.”

Jaskier feels his lips twitch upwards despite himself, firmly ignoring the warmth in his chest that threatens to overwhelm his frustration. “If you think that’s all it’s going to take to make this whole mess up to me –”

“I know.” Lambert’s playful expression shifts into something more serious. “But let me try?”

Jaskier glares at him for a moment before the rest of the frustration finally slips from his grasp in a heavy sigh. “I should’ve taken my chances with the wyvern.”

Lambert chuckles, and Jaskier heads over to the bar for another tankard of hot spiced wine to soothe both his throat and his nerves. Trying not to linger on how warm Geralt’s fingers had been when they brushed against his.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hello, Roach.”  
  
Jaskier waits until he’s sure they’re alone to approach her, the others off collecting some wood so they can survive the coming night’s chill. Roach greets him with a soft nicker, bumping her head against him in a transparent attempt to search his pockets for treats, pawing at the ground with her hooves impatiently when she can’t smell any.  
  
“Sorry, girl, I don’t have anything for you today. I know, I know,” he soothes when she snorts at him, giving Jaskier a look that reminds him of her rider, “how awful of me. Mark my words, the next time you see me my pockets will once again be filled will all the sugar cubes and apples your big horse heart could ever desire.”

“You’ll rot her teeth.”

For a moment, Jaskier thinks he might have turned to stone, heart still in his chest, hand frozen in place on Roach’s nose as the mare acknowledges the second presence with a small snort. And for a moment, he wishes desperately to be able to get away with such things too; to communicate without tripping over words that lack the meaning needed to navigate his muddled sentiments.

“ _Well_ a little tooth rot’s good for the soul.” Jaskier tries to shrug off the paralysis and all the feelings that came with it, glancing up where Geralt is standing with arms full of logs and kindling. “Where are Ciri and Lambert?”

“Looking for more wood.” Geralt sets his pile down by their makeshift fire pit, and Jaskier hates the part of himself that relaxes ever so slightly now that he’s returned. The part that is still... _comforted_ at the sight of him. “I volunteered to go back with what we’d gathered.”

Jaskier gives Roach one last pat before moving over to inspect the pile, letting out a low whistle, “Wow. If they come back with half as much as that, then we’ll have enough for a proper bonfire.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt starts to arrange the kindling, and Jaskier makes his way over to the opposite side of the makeshift fire pit. He settles in before digging around in his pack for a pen and some parchment to try and make himself look busy while they wait. Anything so he doesn’t have to look at the way Geralt’s hair is still tied back in the same way it’s always been, eyes just as sharp and golden. As though neither time nor anything else has passed between them since that day on the mountain. 

“Ciri said you’d been to court.”

It’s a question, for all it sounds like a statement, and Jaskier pauses his rummaging to look back up at Geralt as he continues. “She recognized your voice. With the... song you sung... for Lambert.”

“Well,” Jaskier sends him a smile despite the hollowed out feeling in his chest, “can’t exactly blame me for being curious, can you? Besides, you know me, never one to shy away from a good story. Or good coin.”

“Or good wine.” Geralt’s eyes meet his from across the fire. “Little of that in following Lambert around.”

Jaskier holds his gaze evenly, lips curling upwards in a show of humor that doesn’t reach his eyes. “And yet, I got along just fine when I was following you around; without wine or a great deal of other things. Besides –” Jaskier finally pulls the pen and parchment from his pack, “ – the man saved me from a wyvern. That alone earns him a song or two.”

“Eighteen.” Geralt says, voice low, “He says you wrote him eighteen.”

And really, what an exasperating lot witchers are. For all their skills and mutations their heads are remarkable thick and they’re just as likely to go behind a muck-cart and think it a wedding than they are to slay a beast. Or, to complain about attention and notoriety until someone else is the object of fame’s affections.

“Careful, Geralt. In this light, your eyes look a lot more green than gold.”

Geralt’s jaw clenches, and for a moment he looks as though he might fire back his own stunningly witty repartee, or at least growl something threatening in Jaskier’s general direction, but then he simply shifts his gaze to glare at the fire instead. Jaskier sends the flames silent words of support, lest they flicker and fade under the pressure of Geralt’s eyes upon them.

They sit for a while in silence, Jaskier penning a few poems that will never be turned into lyrics, but getting them out helps exorcise the petty vindictiveness possessing his creativity. And no, it is not at all telling that all of said poems pertain to the myriad different ways Geralt can go and –

“Is she different?”

Jaskier’s quill stops and he looks up at Geralt, who seems to have taken a breath or two, or eighteen, in the break in their conversation. The tension in his body having eased, to the point that he appears as he did when he first came back from the woods. “Ciri. Is she... different? From how you knew her?”

Jaskier thinks back to the princess he sang to from across a crowded ballroom. The one that he whispered jokes, sent winks and told epic tales to when he ran into her roaming around the city in her various disguises. “Not really. More quiet, maybe. Then again, I suppose that’s to be expected given... everything.”

“Hmm.”

The firelight frames a fatigue on Geralt’s face that makes Jaskier’s chest ache, and the words are out of his mouth before he’s made the decision to speak them.

“She’s happy with you,” Jaskier says softly, a nostalgic smile pulling at his lips, and Geralt raises his eyes from the fire to look at him. “Believe me, you’d know if she wasn’t. Has she told you what she did to the first boy who asked her to dance?”

Geralt gives his head a slight shake, and Jaskier continues. “Well, he was a massive prat to be honest, kept stepping on her feet and blaming her for it. Said she was ‘getting underfoot’ on purpose to make him look bad. Now, one bad dance, that’s one thing, but he kept on coming back and asking her for another, and another, and his footwork never got any better. So finally, it’s their fourth dance of the evening and he steps on her foot for what must be at least the hundredth time, and he’s halfway through blaming her for it, again, when – _bam!_ ” Jasker makes a grand swinging motion with his arm. “She knocks him upside the head with an uppercut truly worthy of the lion cub of Cintra. And he just _drops_. Swear I saw some of his teeth go flying. Meanwhile, Ciri just blinks at him, all innocent like, and apologizes for _‘getting underfoot’_.”

Geralt chuckles, low and soft. “Sounds like her.” He raises an eyebrow at Jaskier. “I’m surprised you haven’t turned it into a ballad.” 

“I could never find the right melody.” Jaskier shrugs, waving a hand errantly. “Besides, some tales are too beautiful to turn into prose. They deserve to be told in person.” 

“Even if it means one day they’ll disappear?” Geralt asks.  
  
“A story doesn’t have to live forever to be important.” Jaskier says. “All it needs to do is give comfort to one person, for one moment.” 

Geralt looks at him for a long while, something deep and unreadable and impossibly old in his eyes, and Jaskier thinks he might drown in them; if ever given the chance.

Instead he looks away, turning back to his parchment with a slight cough. “Well, hopefully the two of them haven’t fallen into a ditch or something. I’d hate to have to fish them out of some godforsaken fox hole –”

“I’m sorry.”

Jaskier stares at the parchment without seeing it, body held carefully tight and still as his mind whirs at those two words.

“For the mountain, and what happened. What I said.” Geralt seems to fumble for words for a moment, the first time Jaskier’s ever seen him struggle so. “What I did... it wasn’t fair.”

“No,” Jaskier says softly, “it wasn’t.”

Something strangely similar to guilt seems to take over Geralt’s face, and he shifts forward slightly. “Jaskier –”

“Sorry we’re late.” Lambert steps into the clearing, Ciri beside him, his arms full of twice as much logs, sticks and twigs as Geralt had brought back, “Princess here insisted on making it a competition, and, well –”

“I won.” Ciri tells them, eyes gleaming with pride as she comes to sit beside Geralt.

“Barely.” Lambert grunts, dumping the pile next to the one Geralt made before sitting down next to Jaskier, bumping their knees together in a silent greeting.

Jaskier pushes away the last five minutes, and the emotions they brought with them, turning to aim an arched eyebrow at Lambert, “I see they included the mutation that makes you a sore loser.”

“Seems so,” Lambert agrees shamelessly, giving Jaskier a crooked grin before nudging his shoulder playfully, “What’s your excuse?”

“ _I_ am _not_ a sore loser.”

“Except when Valdo Marx won that poetry thing of yours.”

“You mean when he _bought_ it with far too much coin and a truly disgusting amount of arse k – ” Jaskier cuts himself off with a cough, “In any case, that was an exception, not the rule.”

Lambert rolls his eyes, though with a touch of fondness. “Whatever you say, Jas.”

And Jaskier wastes no time in launching into a rather lengthy, but meticulously thorough, rebuttal to that. Noting with some frustration that despite his very compelling arguments, Lambert’s smug look remains firmly in place. Ciri also seems to find the whole thing rather amusing, judging by the smirk that curls her lips as she watches the scene play out. And as for Geralt, well, Jaskier does his best to ignore those gold eyes on for the rest of the night.

* * *

“Finest silver you’ll find in these parts!”

Jaskier makes a face, turning the ring over in his fingers, “Yes, well. If you can call anything remotely silver-coloured _silver_.”

The merchant gives him a dirty look, and Jaskier puts the ring back down quickly with a nervous cough, scanning the rest of the offerings as an excuse not to make eye contact with the man. Next to him, Ciri’s lips twitch into a smirk beneath her hood, and he finds himself lamenting, not for the first time, the lack a growly witcher at their side.

The two of them have been left to their own devices while both Geralt and Lambert hunt yet another beast with far too many teeth. If all goes according to plan, their two groups should be meeting up again in the tavern tonight. Jaskier can get all the details from Lambert and, if he’s extremely lucky, should have a new song by midnight. 

For now, though, he and Ciri still have an hour or so to kill between them. And he’s about to suggest they spend it elsewhere, perhaps in the bookshop he caught of glimpse of earlier, when his eyes catch on another item in the merchant’s hoard. It’s an earring, made of amber shaped into the likeness of a raindrop, with the upper portion wrapped in curling tendrils of silver. Looking at it, he can already imagine five outfits that it would work marvellously with, and his fingers are halfway to it when he sees Ciri’s already running over a different item.

“See something you like?” Jaskier asks, shifting closer and peering at the item in question: a finely crafted pendant of a bird of some sort. A swallow, perhaps.

Ciri doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t take her hands away from the necklace either.

Jaskier feels something in his chest clench, and before he can think any further, he’s meeting the merchant’s eyes and nodding his head towards the necklace.

“How much for the necklace and the earring, my good sir?”

Ciri’s head moves so fast that Jaskier’s half-worried it might snap off her neck, and she looks up at him with wide eyes.

“Ten crowns,” The merchant tells him, eyes hard and arms crossed in a way that makes Jaskier think that any attempt to haggle might be not necessarily the best idea.

Still, ten crowns is hardly cheap, especially given the quality of the items, and Jaskier can already feel his pockets emptying of all the coin he managed to make the past two nights performing at the tavern.

So, he shifts his posture slightly, opening the top of his jacket wider with a quick, almost imperceptible, movement of his hand. “Two crowns.”

The merchant’s scowl doesn’t so much as twitch. “Ten.”

“Two,” Jaskier gives the widest smile he can manage. “And you’ll be rid of us.”

For a good moment, Jaskier swears the merchant looks extremely tempted, before his jaw hardens and his eyes are back to that immovable glare.

“Ten crowns. And I won’t knock you on your arse when you go.”

“Two,” Jaskier’s smile loses its good will, really more of a barring of teeth than anything else now. “And I promise not to tell any guard I pass on my way that you’re selling stolen Piękno Jewelry.”

The blood drains from the merchant’s face in an instant, and Jaskier is fairly certain a gentle breeze would be enough to knock the man over.

The merchant swallows, throat working thickly, the arms crossed over his chest appearing more for defense than intimidation now. “Three.”

“Done!” Jaskier drops the coins into the merchant’s hands, and the man quickly gathers their jewelry into two small pouches before handing them over. Jaskier takes them happily, ignoring the furious glare from the man, and turns to face Ciri with a triumphant smile.

“Shall we?”

Ciri grins up at him with something between wonder and bewilderment, taking the arm offered to her as the two of them begin to make their way through the streets back to the inn.

“How did you know they were stolen?”

“Ah, well,” Jaskier pockets the pouches carefully, “there was a big _heist_ , as it were, on a Piękno jewelry shop about a year or two back. It was all they could talk about at court, or anywhere there was any money and influence, really. Besides, people have a habit of not noticing you when they’re paying coin for your services. Except in certain, very specific cases that you’ll have to remind me to tell you about when you’re older – ”

“I’m not a child, Jaskier.” Ciri interrupts, giving him a very good impression of one of Calanthe’s infamous glares.

“We are all of us the children of fate, my dear,” Jaskier intones, giving her a playful nudge, “ever at the mercy of her fanciful whims.”

Ciri rolls her eyes, but her lips curve into a slight smile all the same.

Jaskier grins back at her, “Which reminds me, I still haven’t told you about the time Aleks Kaminski and I stole our professor’s stuffed wyvern head and replaced it with –”

“Halt!”

Jaskier’s blood freezes in his veins, and he tightens his grip on Ciri instinctively as they draw to an immediate stop.

A soldier steps out from a nearby alley, and Jaskier feels the most fleeting sensation of relief before he takes in the colours they’re wearing and has to stop himself from cursing instead.

“Ah, hello, there. What a wonderful surprise to see a Nilfgaardian so far north. Come to take in the sights, I take it – ?”

“I am Lieutenant Nowak of His Eminence’s Imperial Army,” the soldier delivers the title like it’s anything to be impressed by, eyes flicking from Jaskier to where Ciri has shifted slightly behind him, lowering her head to try and keep her face concealed. “identify yourselves.” 

“Of course, where are our manners? Julian Alfred, and my daughter Zireael, at your, uh, service.” Jaskier gives an awkward half bow, caught between showing deference and keeping as much of Ciri from sight for as long as he can.

Nowak’s eyes narrow. “ _Your_ daughter?”

“Yes. Takes after her mother,” Jaskier resists the urge to shuffle restlessly underneath the soldier’s gaze. “Is there anything we can help you with?”

“Funny. People we spoke to didn’t say anything about a woman.” Nowak takes a step closer, hand already on his hilt, and Jaskier pushes Ciri and himself back in turn, “Word at the tavern is that you’re traveling with two witchers.”

Jaskier’s heart leaps into his throat and he struggles to swallow it back down. “Well, I’m afraid she’s already passed on, almost five years past. And as for what those good people are the tavern told you, all I can tell you is that ale was flowing so, ah, very, _very_ freely when we arrived. I can see why their memories might be a little, ah, muddled. But, I can assure you, my husband and his brother are no witchers.”

Nowak stops his advance, staring at Jaskier. “Husband?”

“Yes,” Jaskier nods. “For, oh, about... three years now? Feels like a lifetime if I’m honest with you. Couldn’t imagine my life without him.”

“And your husband just _happens_ to have white hair and golden eyes?” Nowak asks, eyebrows raised, but his hand has moved from the hilt of his sword back to his side.

“Light brown, actually,” Jaskier works to keep his voice from wavering, though how much he actually succeeds is anyone’s guess. “Though, I could see how they might appear so in the dim light of a tavern, especially when one was well into their cups. As for his hair, well, though I love the man dearly, there’s no denying he’s getting on in years. That’s why we’re traveling, you see. We’re headed for his brother’s holdings in Toussaint before the next winter sets in.”

Nowak grunts, crossing his arm and looking Jaskier up and down. “Must be hard. Traveling all that distance just so an old man’s bones don’t creak.”

“I find the ‘old man’ himself reward enough,” Jaskier returns with a rather forced laugh, clearing his throat slightly before continuing. “So, if there’s nothing further we can help you with, we’ll just – ”

Nowak holds out a hand, keeping them in place, and Jaskier thinks about where his dagger would land to the most effect. His little 'letter opener' may not be enough to stop the man, but he could buy Ciri some time –

“The girl can leave,” Nowak nods towards Ciri, “If what you say is true, she’ll find your... _husband_ and his brother with the rest of our men at the tavern. In the meantime, you’ll come with me. You’ll need to tell your story to the captain.”

Jaskier feels his heartbeat pick up again, cursing silently. Artful lies are all well and good, but they mean fuck all if those soldiers meet Lambert and Geralt at the tavern and get a good look at their ‘light brown eyes’ for themselves.

“In the meantime,” Nowak continues, unaware of the rapidly rising panic clawing at Jaskier’s lungs, “you’ll come with me. Tell your story to the captain.”

Jaskier feels like he might as well have swallowed the entirety of The Oxenfurt Academy’s chalk supply, mouth and throat horrifically dry.

“Right, well,” he gives Ciri a slight nudge, “go meet up with your father then, love.”

Ciri’s grip on him tightens. “Not without you.”

“You’ll survive the trip without him, girl,” Nowak moves forward brusquely, hand already reaching out to tear Ciri away, but Jaskier dodges the movement while managing to make it seem like it was completely accidental. And for the first time in his life, Jaskier thanks the gods that his dancing instructor was so infamously passive aggressive.

Jaskier squats down in front of her. “I’ll be right behind you, I promise. Until then – ” he takes the two pouches from his pocket, placing them in her palm and closing her fingers into a gentle fist around them, “ – keep these safe for me, would you?”

Ciri looks like she’s about to protest further, but Jaskier gives her a pleading look and her mouth snaps shut; lips pressing into a thin line as she turns and flees down the cobblestone street.

Jaskier feels some of the tension seep from him now that she’s now longer in reach of Nowak and his steel, turning to look at Nowak and gesturing for him to lead the way.

“After you.”

Nowak just looks at him until Jaskier gets the message, retracting his hand. He steps in front of Nowak, allowing the lieutenant to grab his arm and drag him away.

Jaskier’s mind whirs as they walk, trying to make sense of it all. Nilfgaard soldiers shouldn’t be this far north – shouldn’t be _north_ at all. Perhaps they snuck through some sort of secret trail that didn’t require them to take the bridge. _Or_ , perhaps they made their own bridge.

And wasn’t _that_ a terrifying thought all on its own.

In any case, their little quartet will have to stick to the road less travelled from now on. Which means less coin for Jaskier, but more contracts for Lambert and Geralt, so, between the three of them they should still be able to scrounge together enough coin to take care of Ciri.

That is, if they manage to get out of this.

His mind conjures images of blood staining white hair as light fades from golden eyes, and he shoves down the thoughts viscously, even as his heart clenches at the sight of them. Geralt’s been in far more dire straits than this, Jaskier right along with him for most of them, and they’ve always managed to make it out. Perhaps with a few bumps and scrapes, but overall, no worse for wear. And there’s nothing to suggest this time will be any different.

Besides, Geralt has Lambert with him, and if travelling with the man has taught Jaskier anything, it’s that he _refuses_ to die. He’s like a buzzing gnat in that way, or one of Valdo Marx’s insipidly composed poems.

The hand on Jaskier’s arm yanks him back and out of his thoughts, and Jaskier is just turning his head to glare at Nowak when he finds himself shoved against the wall of the alley they’re walking through.

“This... doesn’t look like a captain’s tent.” Jaskier winces as Nowak’s grip on him tightens, having shifted to both arms and pinning him in place. “But, hey, what do I know? Maybe this is how you lot do it down in Nilfgaard – ”

Nowak’s brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”

“The... captain?” Jaskier reminds the man. “That you were bringing me to see?”

Nowak snorts. “That was just an excuse for the girl. So that you and I could get the chance to... get to know each other.”

Jaskier stares at him, jaw practically on the ground.

_“What?”_

A flash of uncertainty crosses Nowak’s face before it’s replaced with an obviously false bravado, and he shifts his grip from Jaskier’s shoulders to his wrists. “I saw the way you were looking at me. That old man of yours can’t give you what you want, can he? Not like I can.”

It takes every single iota of Jaskier’s being not to burst into truly hysterical laughter – the relief that sweeps through him as dizzying as it is unhinging. As it is, he can’t stop a slight laugh from escaping him as he shakes his head and twists his wrists out of the man’s grip.

“So, _so_ , sorry, but I’m afraid there’s been some... misunderstanding between us. I am very much... _satisfied_ by my... husband. Who I’ll be returning to... now.”

He slips past Nowak, who now looks as bewildered as Jaskier had felt, and starts to head towards the exit to the alley.

“Hey, wait –”

Screams ripple the air around them, followed by the sound of footsteps fleeing every which way, and Jaskier instinctually stops. Just for a second, but it’s enough for his only exit to be blocked by another Nilfgaardian solider. Only... this one is wearing a lot more red than the one behind him.

Red that is flowing from the stump where his left arm presumably used to reside, recently at that, and staining the cobblestones below.

“Lieutenant... ” The man rasps out, “Witchers. Tavern. They were – ”

His eyes roll back into his head and then he’s dropping, hitting the ground with an awful thud that settles in Jaskier’s gut; the soldier twitching one last time before going very, very still.

Jaskier should move, he knows that, but his feet seem as stuck to the floor as his eyes are stuck to the man’s body, and it takes several crucial seconds for him to pull himself together enough to force himself towards the main street.

He’s almost there when the hand reaches out and snags the back of his shirt.

With a brutality that leaves his head reeling, he’s pulled back into the alley and shoved against the wall once more. And if he thought Nowak was being rough with him before, well, this makes those touches feel feather light in comparison.

“ _You,_ ” Nowak snarls. “You _lied_ to me.”

“Actually, I prefer the term _improvised_ – ”

Jaskier is cut off as Nowak wraps a hand around his neck.

“I am going to _gut_ you,” Nowak promises, low and harsh, and Jaskier sees black spots dance in and out of his vision as the grip tightens. His own hands come up instinctually, trying desperately to pry off the hand cutting off the air his burning lungs are screaming for. “I am going to kill that girl of yours, and your damn witchers and then, oh, _then_ –”

Jaskier keeps tugging at the grip, cursing himself for deciding to store his dagger in his boot, and kicks the side of the man’s kneecap with all his strength. 

Nowak topples to the ground, his grip dropping in an instant, but so does Jaskier. He hits the ground hard, body trembling as he gasps in lungful after lungful of air, hand shaking as he reaches into his boot –

“Son of a – ”

Nowak lunges for him just as Jaskier’s hands wrap around the hilt of his dagger.

In the end Jaskier doesn’t so much as stab Nowak as the lieutenant runs into his dagger, the knife sinking through a weak spot in the side of his armor. They both seem equally shocked about it, staring at the hot blood as it runs over the hilt and onto Jaskier. His fingers feel slippery with it and part of him wonders if he ought to tighten his grip or not, when Nowak shifts ever so slightly and suddenly Jaskier’s hand is moving and there’s so, _so_ , much more blood, and Nowak’s eyes are rolling into the back of his head as he collapses to the side of Jaskier and everything is wet and red red red –

Jaskier’s eyes snap closed as he presses his other hand to his mouth, taking a deep, shuddering breath in through his nose. His grip on the dagger’s hilt so tight it hurts.

He forces his eyes open as he breathes out, pushing himself to his feet. He sways and nearly loses his balance as soon as he does so, but just about manages it because... because he has to move, has to get out of here, away from the wet and the red and back to – back to –

He runs right into a solid mass of armour and muscle and his hand is already bringing up the dagger when a hand catches his wrist, holding it in place.

“Jaskier!”

He looks up into familiar golden eyes, and his legs threaten to collapse beneath him once again.

“Geralt.” His hand releases the dagger, and it clatters to the stones below as his shoulders sag with relief.

Geralt doesn’t seem to share the same sense of relief, jaw clenched tight as he moves his eyes to Jaskier’s chest, nose flaring as he breathes in deep. It takes Jaskier a moment to realize what he’s doing, but he manages it in time to catch Geralt’s wrist and stop him from turning his stained doublet into rags.  
  
“It’s not mine, it’s, uh – ” Jaskier swallows, closing his eyes briefly against the wave of red that threatens to overwhelm him. “It’s not mine.”

Geralt’s eyes meet his and then and only then does the man relax, just a fraction, Jaskier eyeing him carefully as they each let go of the other’s wrist.

And then those eyes land on Jaskier’s throat.

He steps closer, body wound as tight as Jaskier’s ever seen him, carefully controlled violence thrumming beneath his skin. He cups the side of Jaskier’s neck with a gentleness entirely at odds with the utter desolation the rage burning in his eyes promises. And when he speaks, his voice is a low, guttural growl.

“Who – ”

“Dead.”

The word makes Jaskier’s chest feel hollowed out, but he shakes off the feeling and forces some pep into his voice, “Which we will be if we don’t make ourselves scarce. Where are Ciri and Lambert – ?”

“Waiting in the woods,” Geralt tells him, eyes fixed on Jaskier’s neck. “Where – ”

“Oh, for Melitele’s sake – _dead_ , Geralt.” Jaskier tells him exasperatedly, as though he really were an old man asking where his glasses were for the fifteenth time. The thought threatens to make laughter bubble up from within him, and he thinks that perhaps if Geralt and Lambert had been with them when this whole thing began, then they might have gotten out of it without so much bloodshed after all.

Geralt doesn’t move, utterly still apart from the thumb brushing gently against Jaskier’s neck with a tenderness that makes him ache.

“Geralt.” Jaskier takes his other hand in his, squeezing gently until that gaze is no longer fixed on Jaskier’s neck, but his eyes. “We need to go.”

Geralt stares at him for a moment, before he nods, ever so slightly, letting go of Jaskier’s neck and taking a step backwards. Jaskier trying not to shiver at how cold his neck feels at the absence as he lets go of Geralt’s hand.

And then –

Then they run.

* * *

They manage to make it out of the city and to Lambert and Ciri without too much interference, Geralt easily cutting down any that springs up.

Ciri had obviously been intending to lay into Jaskier when he arrived, but one look at his neck and all the fight had gone out of her in an instant. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him tight enough to chase any air he had left from their flight out of his lungs.

But he can’t really blame her, because he’s pretty sure he gripped her back just as tight.

Lambert had called him an idiot, and then forced some absolutely foul ‘healing draft’ down his throat. Singing was apparently off the table for the foreseeable future, which was its own kind of devastation to hear, but at least he can still strum his lute. 

Now, Ciri sleeps tucked up in her bedroll, breaths coming slow and even, Lambert off getting more wood to keep the fire going, and Geralt rearranging their packs so the horses will have an easier ride tomorrow. Not exactly easy to pack efficiently when fleeing for your lives and all, and Roach had definitely let her displeasure with the uncomfortable retreat be known. Though, she'd seemed pacified by the sugar cubes that Jaskier slipped her as he combed her hair out.

He hears movement to his left, and turns to see Geralt sitting down next to him at the fire. “Finished, then?”

“Hmm.” Geralt stokes the fire, tossing some more twigs on for good measure.

Jaskier sighs. “One of these days, Geralt, you’re going to deliver some epic, world-altering soliloquy and I assure you that when that day comes everyone that hears it will expire from the shock.”

“Even you?” Geralt asks dryly.

Jaskier grins at him, “Of course not! Someone has to chronicle this once in a lifetime event – turn it into a proper ballad and all that. I – ”

He gets cut off by a series of coughs, his throat protesting against its further use, and Geralt pushes a waterskin into his hands.

“Rest your voice,” Geralt tells him, lips twitching slightly, placing a hand on Jaskier’s back to steady him as he drinks. “Or else they’ll be no one to sing it.”

Jaskier snorts. “I assure you, Geralt, bards everywhere will be lining up to sing the story in every tavern and soiree across the continent – ”

“I want you to sing it.” Geralt meets his eyes, “Just you.”

And that, well, that’s just ridiculous, isn’t it? The only way a song gets spread, a tale gets told, is from the mouths of others and Jaskier, for all his many gifts, is only one man. And besides, songs spread like ideas, taking on a life of their own as they touch hearts and minds and tumble from others’ lips in soft melodies – adding up to one great harmony. So, the only way to keep it to himself would be to sing for Geralt, and only Geralt, which is hardly a way to make coin. 

Still, his heart swells, and he feels a soft and gentle warmth curl through his chest as he meets Geralt’s eyes; finding himself at a loss for words for the first time in a long time.

Geralt breaks the gaze first, turning back to the fire, and Jaskier feels himself let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He glances down at the waterskin in his hands, turning it slightly as the fire casts an amber glow on his fingers. “Does it ever get any easier?”

“What?” Geralt asks.

“Taking a life.”

Geralt pauses, and Jaskier uses to the time to look at his hands, telling himself firmly that they are clean of the blood, no matter how much he feels otherwise.

“No.” Geralt takes the waterskin from his hands gently. “And if it does, it’s more curse than blessing.”

“Hm,” Jaskier hums. “And you’re the expert in breaking curses. In killing monsters.”

Geralt meets his eyes, hand coming up to cup his neck again, thumb brushing gently against the finger-print shaped bruises already beginning to form. “So are you.”

It brings more comfort than it should, and Jaskier closes his eyes, letting out a deep breath as he shifts so he’s leaning against Geralt’s shoulder.

Silence falls over them as they sit there together, staring into the fire, and Jaskier feels the day catch up with him, his eyelids drooping.

“Does this mean you’ll let me ride Roach tomorrow?”

“Shut up, bard.”

Jaskier only realizes he’s fallen asleep when he wakes the next morning to find himself carefully tucked into his bedroll. And when it comes time for them to leave, Lambert mounts his own horse while Geralt helps both Ciri and Jaskier onto Roach; holding the reins to guide her as they continue on their way.


	3. Chapter 3

“Well, what do you think? Still like it? Or should we melt it down for earrings? Or – or a brooch! Or a – ”

“It’s perfect.” Ciri smiles at him, letting go of the silver swallow around her neck and walking over to him. “And so is yours.”

Jaskier preens, tilting his head to show off the gleam of amber and silver proudly before dropping into a low and sweeping bow. “Thank you kindly, my lady. I knew someone with taste so discerning as yours would appreciate it’s beauty.”

Lambert snorts loudly from over where he’s cleaning his swords, shooting Jaskier a look that the bard resolutely ignores as he extends a hand towards Ciri.

“Perhaps you could do me the honor of a dance? Don’t worry,” he winks at her, “I promise not to step on your feet.”

Ciri gives him a look of her own, but takes his hand with all the primness of a princess clothed in enough silk and jewels to feed the continent twice over; even though their grand ballroom is nothing more than the remains of a long-abandoned hunting cottage.

Still, it’s a roof over their heads, a respite from the pouring rain outside, with space enough for a few sideways steps and twirls. And Jaskier is nothing if not an optimist.

“This is... harder without the music,” Ciri says, looking up at Jaskier with a shrug, “but at least this way no one can tell if you miss a step.”

“With our present company, I’m fairly certain we could trip over our own feet and they still wouldn’t notice anything amiss.” Jaskir murmurs back.

Ciri glances over to where Geralt is leaning against the opposite wall, cleaning his own swords, and a truly devilish glint takes over her eyes. “Care to make a wager?”

“Gambling is a terrible habit, my lady.” Jaskier grins back at her. “What did you have in mind?” 

“I bet I can get Geralt to dance.”

“Interesting.” Jaskier leads her through a twirl. “And if you fail?”

“I’ll convince Geralt to buy those expensive soaps you like,” Ciri’s levels a proud smirk at him, “and _when_ I win, you have to write a song about me.”

“Hm.” Jaskier considers it, leading Ciri though a spin. “Deal.”

“Switch!” She calls, grinning at Jaskier as she drops her hands and races over to Geralt, who looks up from his swords at the commotion.

Jaskier watches her try and cajole Geralt onto his feet, a terrible fondness growing ever larger within him; threatening to wrap its tendrils around every single piece of his being.

“Well, _my lord_ ,” a dry voice intones, “I guess that leaves you and me.”

He turns to see Lambert in a half bow, eyebrow raised and holding his hand out for Jaskier’s.

Jaskier makes a show of sniffing haughtily and putting his nose up in the air, “And what makes you think I’d give you the pleasure of a dance, you rogue?”

“My dashing good looks, my roguish charm,” Lambert takes Jaskier’s hand, tugging him close enough to place a hand on his waist, “the lack of any other partners.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, a fond smirk curling his lips as the two begin to move, and he soon finds that to his surprise, Lambert is actually a fairly decent dancer.

“I’d accuse you of holding back on me if we’d ever been to a party together,” Jaskier tells him. “As it is, I only regret that we never got the chance to show off your skills.”

Lambert grins at him. “There’s still time. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, bard, but I have at least a few good years left in me.”

“Tell that to your hair.”

Lambert’s face undergoes a very impressive twitch. “I told you. I keep it cut short on purpose.”

“Of course, you do,” Jaskier soothes, and finds himself led through a dizzying series of twirls that have him laughing even as his head spins.  
  
Eventually, Lambert steadies him, leading him through some more muted steps until the room stops shifting around them and Jaskier feels steady on his feet once more. Out of the corner of his eyes, he spots movement, and turns his head to see Ciri slowly but surely leading Geralt through the steps; a gentleness to Geralt’s eyes and face as he looks down at her. It makes something soft and warm unfold in Jaskier’s chest, and brings a smile to his face.

“I guess I owe her a song now.”

Jaskier sighs, turning back to Lambert, and he raises an eyebrow at the smirk that greets him, “What?”

“A week, you said,” Lambert takes them a few steps further from Geralt and Ciri, towards the other corner of the cottage, “it’s been three.”

“Yes, well,” Jaskier drops his eyes from Lambert, the floor suddenly so much more intriguing, “that was before... well, you know, everything.”

Before Nilfgaard had found them, before they had spent the past week on the run, avoiding towns and well-traveled roads for the anonymity of the wilderness and overgrown trails. Before Jaskier had driven a dagger into the side of another human being and pulled out their soul with a sick squelching sound.

Lambert shrugs. “All the more reason to leave now.” His eyes fall to the yet-to-fade bruises on Jaskier’s neck. “Every second with them makes us more and more likely to lose our heads.”

“We can’t just – ” Jaskier cuts himself off, lowering his voice before continuing, “we can’t leave them! They _need_ us.” Jaskier glares at him, “I can’t believe you’d abandon them to fucking _Nilfgaard_ – ”

“Didn’t say I was going to,” Lambert cuts him off, his voice just as low and quiet, but with less of a hissed edge than Jaskier’s. “Just pointing out it’d be the smart thing to do.”

Lambert nods towards Ciri. “And, that I doubt our princess is going to do you the favour of losing interest in you and allowing you to slip away unnoticed into the night. No matter how much time passes. So,” Lambert smirks down at him, eyebrow arched slightly, “what’s your plan now?”

Jaskier stares at him, letting Lambert lead him across the room, very aware that, perhaps for the first time in his entire life, he doesn’t have an answer.

“I – ”

“Switch!”

Lambert leads him through a fast twirl, dizzying him almost as much as their conversation, before letting him go just a hair too soon. He stumbles forward, looking for something, anything, to catch him so he doesn’t end up falling on his face –

– and ends up stumbling right into Geralt. 

“Ah.” Jaskier draws back slightly, “Sorry about that. Thank you, though. For catching me. I didn’t much fancy my chances with the floor.”

“Not many bards with crooked noses?” Geralt asks, reaching forward and placing a hand on Jaskier’s waist.

Jaskier laughs, taking Geralt’s other hand in his and beginning to lead them through the dance. “Oh, I imagine there are several. Bread certainly isn’t the worst thing people have been known to throw after a bad performance.”

“Hmm.” Geralt raises an eyebrow at him. “And the worst you’ve had thrown at you?”

Jaskier leans in closer, lowering his voice to a dread-filled whisper, “Valdo Marx’s poetry collection.”

Geralt actually laughs at that, a low, quiet chuckle that draws a smile from Jaskier in turn.

“See you’re still his number one fan.”

Jaskier gives him a faux affronted look. “What have I done to you to deserve such a grave and terrible insult?” 

It’s meant to be a simple jest, but then Geralt’s face tightens with guilt, and Jaskier’s stomach drops to the floor along with his gaze.

They move through the steps silently for a moment or two and Geralt isn’t _terrible_ at this, but he’s a great deal slower than Lambert, and Jaskier makes sure not to lead him through any complicated twists and turns.

“Your earring... ” Geralt hesitates. “Your earring looks good.”

“Doesn’t it?” Jaskier tilts his head to the side to better show it off, “The merchant wanted a small fortune for it, but I managed to convince him to lower the price thanks to my great haggling abilities and unravelled charm. The likes of which – ”

“Ciri said you blackmailed him.”

“Same thing, really.”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s eyes fall to his neck. “How’s your throat?”

“Almost good as new.” Jaskier grins at him with a teasing glint in his eyes, “I’ll soon be gracing your ears with my magnificent and melodious tunes once more.” 

“I look forward to it.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him, looking for any hint that Geralt is being less than sincere. But, much to his surprise, Geralt appears entirely genuine. “What, really?”

“You’re... ” Geralt seems to struggle to find the words, “...good at what you do. Besides, Ciri says this is a hell of a lot easier with music.”

“Oh, come now, Geralt, you’re not doing so bad,” Jaskier teases. “In fact, you’re following along quite nicely. _And_ , you’ve yet to step on anyone’s foot.”

“I feared what might happen if I did,” Geralt says dryly.

Jaskier laughs. “Quite. I can’t speak for our princess, but I promise not to return your missteps with uppercuts. Or by stamping on _your_ foot, like my dance instructor used to. Mr. Veol was his name; dreadfully ill-tempered man. You wouldn’t believe the bruised, bloody messes my feet were by the time his _‘lessons’_ were over.”

“Can’t imagine you ever being bad at this,” Geralt comments, and in addition to filling Jaskier with a great sense of pride, it makes a slight flush creep up the bard’s neck and into his cheeks.

“Well, as they say: practice makes perfect.” Jaskier smirks. “And if Ciri has her way, I suspect you’ll have more opportunities to practice than you could ever need.”

Geralt sighs, and Jaskier has to fight to keep his smirk from turning into an unbearably fond smile. “Why can’t the two of you dance? Leave me out of it.”

“But, Geralt,” Jaskier looks him, eyes wide, “who would provide the music?”

It’s clear that never occurred to Geralt, and Jaskier wonders if he thought Jaskier capable of strumming his lute and dancing at the same time. As though Jaskier had four arms instead of two.

Jaskier smirks as Geralt growls under his breath, savouring the moment before finally taking pity on him. “I suppose we could always try and find another one of those boxes. You know,” Jaskier prompts when Geralt looks at him in confusion, “like Lambert has? That let you keep voices and sound.”

Whatever feeling causes Geralt’s jaw to clench is overwhelmed by the confusion that furrows his brow. “The xenovox?”

“Is that what it’s called?” Jaskier asks curiously. “Sounds... fancy. Aaand _slightly_ magical. More so than I thought it was.”

“It is.” Geralt tells him. “And rare. Sorcerers use them for long-distance communication when a megascope isn’t an option. Lambert’s... ” Geralt’s frown deepens, “It’s been altered to _capture_ sound. Not transmit it.”

“Ah.” Jaskier tries to keep his face neutral. None of this is exactly lining up with Lambert’s claim that he ‘ _just happened’_ to come across the device. “Well, we could always just play the song that it’s already recorded - ”

Geralt abruptly takes the lead, grip tightening on Jaskier’s waist as they move through the steps together. It’s... clumsy at first, but Geralt slowly gains more and more surety with every second step.

“There, see?” Jaskier smiles up at him, “What did I tell you, practice makes perfect.”

Geralt rolls his eyes and leads him through a twirl, the move pulling a laugh out of Jaskier. And when they are face to face again, he finds a soft smile waiting for him on Geralt’s lips.

* * *

“Well, at least now we know there’s one thing worse than being covered in monster guts.”

“And that is?”

“Standing next to someone covered in monster guts.” Jaskier shudders. It had taken everything he had not to throw up as Geralt returned to the inn completely covered in mud and muck and viscera; his shoes squelching with every step. The rotting stench of it so strong Jaskier couldn’t smell anything else, senses overwhelmed by the sight of what used to be hot innards cooling and sticking to skin. Melitele’s sake, even Geralt’s _hair_ had been matted with the stuff, caught up in grotesque lumps and tangles that had been hell to try and undo.

He can practically feel Geralt rolling his eyes. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

“If you ask me, coming in looking like that _was_ a cry for help,” Jaskier tells him, putting the soaps and lotions back into his pack. “I’ve never seen Ciri’s eyes go so wide.”

Jaskier turns back to where Geralt is sinking broodily into the bathtub, and sighs. “Oh, cheer up, she’s hardly traumatized. When I went down to help bring up the water for the bath, the little terror was beating the pants off Lambert in gwent.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, and Jaskier has seen that look in his eyes far too many times to not know what it means.  
  
So, he makes his way over to the tub, picks up the last bucket of water they have, and dumps it over Geralt’s head.

Geralt lets out a grunt of shock, drawn out of his thoughts, and whips around to glare at Jaskier.

“Hmm,” Jaskier hums, “bit cold, was it?”

“What the fuck was that for?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Well, you know what they say, a bucket a day keeps the brooding away.”

“I wasn’t – ”

“Yes, you were.” Jaskier sets the bucket down and crouches next to the bathtub, poking Geralt’s face with his finger. “You were making your _broody face_. Which, isn’t all that much different from your scary face to be honest. Hence, the water. Shock to your system and all that.”

A glint in Geralt’s eyes is all the warning Jaskier gets before a damp hand is wrapping around his wrist and he’s pulled into the tub as well.

Geralt greets Jaskier with a smug look as he comes up spluttering bath water, his clothes soaked and sticking to his skin. “How’s that for a shock to the system?”

“Oh, _very_ mature, Geralt.” Jaskier rolls his eyes, and then splashes Geralt with all his might.

Geralt returns the favour, and pretty soon the two of them are engaged in an all-out splash war, and by the time Jaskier throws his hands up in defeat the both of them are utterly drenched. “Alright, alright, I surrender. Do with me what you will, you uncaring brute.” Jaskier glances around at the room and winces. “Better you than the owner of this fine establishment after he sees the state of the floor.” 

Jaskier turns back to Geralt with a smile, but it quickly falters at the look at the man’s face. “Geralt? What is it?”

Geralt looks at him. Just... looks. His eyes full of something that Jaskier can’t even begin to decode on his own. And then he drops his gaze without answering, and Jaskier is having _none_ of that.

“Geralt,” Jaskier reaches forward, carefully taking Geralt’s hands in his own, “talk to me.”

Geralt takes a deep breath in through his nose, and though he doesn’t meet Jaskier’s gaze, he doesn’t shake off Jaskier’s hands either.

“I’m not – ” Geralt cuts himself off, voice so quiet Jaskier has to strain to hear it. “I care.”

Jaskier’s brow furrows in confusion before it dawns on him. “Oh, you mean – I didn’t mean it, Geralt. I was just teasing. I know you care. I’ve always known. Despite all that prattle about not having emotions. And even if I hadn’t,” Jaskier smiles softly, “one look at how you are with Ciri would have told me.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything and, after waiting for a moment, Jaskier squeezes his hands gently. “Now, why don’t you and I get dressed and head down to see her? I’m sure she’ll have a million questions about how you ended up in such a state – ”

Jaskier tries to let go of Geralt’s hands so he can climb out of the tub, but they tighten around his own, keeping him there.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Jaskier asks. “If it’s about the whole... _mountain mess_ , then you’ve already said so. No sense repeating yourself – ”

“Isn’t there?” Geralt finally raises his eyes to meet Jaskier’s, and the sight of them renders Jaskier momentarily speechless. However, he manages to recover quickly. 

“ _No_ , there isn’t, you thick-headed fool,” Jaskier rolls his eyes, “because I’ve already forgiven you. Took me a bit, if I’m honest, but... look, I forgive you. Now do me a favour and forgive yourself.”

Geralt’s eyes widen ever so slightly in surprise, but Jaskier doesn’t falter beneath their scrutiny; meeting that gaze with a wry smile.

After a moment, Geralt’s body gradually relaxes, the tension falling away, but he still doesn’t let go of Jaskier’s hands. Instead, he shifts his grip to one of Jaskier’s wrists and gently tugs him closer. And Jaskier lets him.  
  
This close, Jaskier can see that the dim light in the room has turned Geralt’s gold eyes a soft amber, and he can feel the heat rising from his bare skin. Jaskier reaches forward with his free hand, his fingers tracing over the scars of his chest, barely brave enough to touch them.

“It’s not just Ciri.”

Jaskier pauses, looking back up at Geralt and trying to swallow down the dryness in his throat and mouth. “Sorry, what?”

Geralt brings his hand up to cup Jaskier’s face, his thumb brushing over his cheek gently.

“It’s not just Ciri I care for.” 

Geralt is so close that his breath ghosts against Jaskier’s lips, and Jaskier feels a shiver go down his spine as he presses himself closer, his hands coming up to grab Geralt’s shoulders –

“Geralt? Jaskier?”

They both freeze in place as Ciri’s voice comes through the door, accompanied by some soft knocks.

“Lambert and I ordered some food for you. It’s going to be ready soon.” Ciri’s voice takes on a curious note. “What’s taking you so long anyway – ”

“Just – combing out Geralt’s luscious locks.” Jaskier manages, forcing some steadiness into his voice. “Won’t be a moment.”

That seems to be enough for Ciri, because she departs without another word, and Jaskier finally lets out the breath he’d been holding.

“Well, we’d best not keep them waiting.” Jaskier quickly disentangles himself from Geralt, stepping out of the tub and rushing over to the privacy screen without waiting for an answer; his heart beating a mile a minute.

By the time Jaskier has peeled off his wet clothes and traded them for much drier ones, Geralt is already waiting for him by the door. He’s wearing the deep blue shirt Ciri bought him in the last town over, and the sight makes Jaskier’s chest warm.

“Ready?” Geralt asks.

“As I’ll ever be.”

Geralt holds the door open for him, and with each step they take, something in Jaskier itches to reach out and take Geralt’s hand into his once again.

* * *

“You don’t have to go.”

Lambert smirks. “You don’t have to stay.”

“That’s... ” Jaskier searches for the words. “Different.”

“Not really,” Lambert shrugs. “I have The Path to get back to. And, so do you. Only difference is that _your_ path is with them and mine,” Lambert gestures to road leading east from the tavern, “isn’t.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “At least wait until Geralt gets back. Talk it over with him.”

“Geralt and I have already said our goodbyes.” Lamberts secures the last of his packs, patting his horse gently. “Neither of us like long ones.”

He turns back to Jaskier, crossing the distance between them to clasp his shoulder, “Take care of yourself, will you? Try and keep Geralt between you and any wyverns you come across.”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” Jaskier asks dryly.

“Never.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and pulls Lambert into a hug, squeezing him tightly. “Take your own advice, will you? Stay safe.”

“You know I will.” Lambert squeezes him back before letting go with another pat to his shoulders. “I’ll see you at Kaer Morhen come winter.”

Jaskier laughs. “That’ll be a cold day in hell, I assure you.”

“You really think Ciri’s gonna let you go anywhere else?” Lambert asks, arching an eyebrow before stepping into his stirrup and swinging over and onto his saddle. “Make sure to watch over the little ankle-biter for me.”

“Before you go,” Jaskier steps forward, “I wanted to ask you something.”

Lambert gives him a knowing smirk. “Go ahead. I’m an open book.”

“Where’d you really get the xenovox from?” Jaskier looks up at him curiously, “Geralt told me it’s enchanted. Not only enchanted, but magically modified. Not exactly the sort of thing you’d find kicking about any old merchant’s stall.”

Lambert’s smirk grows. “Let’s just say I got it from a mutual of acquaintance.”

“Of whose?”

“Ours.”

Before Jaskier can question him any further, Lambert nudges his horse into a canter, and takes off along the road; waving a final goodbye as he goes.

Jaskier waits until he disappears from sight to head back into the inn.

Ciri is slow to look up when he sits back down at their table, and Jaskier nods towards her half-eaten stew. “Not hungry?”

“Not really.” Ciri shakes her head.

“Neither am I.” Jaskier nods towards the stairs, “What do you say we turn in early for the night? Knowing Geralt he’ll want us out of here before the sun wakes tomorrow.”

Jaskier expects a small protest at least, even if it’s just a token one, but Ciri simply nods. She follows behind him as they make their way out of the tavern and up to their room.

“So, feeling up for a story tonight?” Jaskier calls as he pulls a chair over to her bed.

He can hear a slight huff from behind the privacy screen. “I keep telling you, I’m not a child. I don’t need a bedtime story.”

“Oh, come on. Who else will I practice my tales on?” Jaskier fusses with the chair for a moment before finally managing to arrange it to his satisfaction.

Ciri sighs loudly, and Jaskier’s lips twitch into a smile that he is quick to hide as she slips out from the privacy screen in her nightshirt. She climbs into bed, pulling the blankets up and giving another one of her famous eye rolls when Jaskier throws another one on for good measure.

“Now,” Jaskier sits in the chair, smiling softly at her, “story or no story?” 

Ciri burrows deeper into the blankets with another sigh that’s betrayed by the smile curling the corners of her lips. “Story.”

“Excellent choice,” Jaskier stage whispers, and she answers with another eye roll.

He picks a short one, not sure she’ll be awake for that much longer, and is proven right when her eyelids begin to droop a third of the way through. By the time he reaches the end, her eyes are closed and her breathing has evened out.

Jaskier tucks her in carefully, making sure she’ll be warm enough when the true cold of this spring night hits.

“Will he be alright?” Ciri’s eyes are still closed, the words barely pushed out of her mouth and slurred with sleep.

“Of course. He’ll be back before you know it – ”

“Not Geralt.” Ciri’s nose scrunches up slightly. “ _Lambert_.”

Jaskier stares down at her, that familiar unbearable fondness making his chest feel too small for his heart, “Love, Destiny himself couldn’t kill the man. He’s far too stubborn for that.” He tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, “Come winter, he’ll be waiting for you in Kaer Morhen.”

“Us,” Ciri says, shifting so she’s more comfortable, “he’ll be waiting for us.”

Jaskier strokes her hair gently, throat working hard around the lump in his throat. “Yes, right. Us.”

Ciri seems satisfied with this, settling down and falling asleep for good this time.

Jaskier strokes her hair for a little while more before carefully taking his hand away and re-taking his seat. They’re out in the middle of nowhere, as they are most days, and they haven’t seen a Nilfgaardian soldier in weeks, but he’d rather wait until Geralt returns to seek the land of dreams himself. He’d left earlier to take care of a Nekker pack that had been giving the innkeeper grief, and hopefully score them a hefty discount in the process.

Despite his best intentions, however, Jaskier finds himself jolting awake a few hours later, a crick already beginning to form in his neck. He rubs it, wincing, checking on Ciri and finding her fast asleep. But there’s still no Geralt in sight.

Jaskier stands up, stretching, and heads towards the door. Perhaps hunting the Nekkers had taken longer than Geralt thought it would, or he was simply having a celebratory drink below? He forces himself not to think about any other possibility, focusing on opening the door as quietly as possible –  
  
And nearly opens it right into Geralt.

“ _There_ you are,” Jaskier says, stepping out into the hallway to join Geralt, closing the door behind him. “Where the hell’ve you been? I’ve been waiting for you for ages. Got an awful crick in my neck – ”

“You’re here.”

“Am I? Hadn’t noticed.” Jaskier can taste the alcohol on Geralt’s breath, and he wonders if he can’t get drunk just on the leftover fumes. “ _Yes_ , I’m here. I was asking where’d _you’d_ been but, judging by your breath, I’d say at the bottom of several pints – ” 

Geralt rushes forward, wrapping his arms around Jaskier and pulling him so close and so tight that Jaskier can’t quite breathe all the way in. And Jaskier realizes that Geralt is... Geralt is _trembling_. He presses his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, and Jaskier can feel every shaky inhale and exhale he makes. His lips brush against Jaskier’s skin, framing words that Jaskier can’t hope to hear. All he can do is wrap his arms around Geralt in return.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Jaskier soothes, “It’s alright.”

Geralt presses himself closer at that, as if he can’t quite bring himself to believe it, and Jaskier strokes his hair like he had Ciri’s.

“Sh. It’s alright.” Jaskier tightens his grip in return, “You’re alright. I’m here.”

Jaskier isn’t sure how long they stand there, wrapped up in one another, but eventually the tension bleeds away from Geralt. And his grip on Jaskier becomes gentler, without the frantic energy of before.

“Come on,” Jaskier gently pushes him up and off of him, “let’s get you to bed.”

Geralt nods, and Jaskier slips an arm around his back, supporting him before leading them back into the room. Ciri, thank the gods, is still fast asleep and snoring softly, and Jaskier does his best to make sure she remains so. It takes some careful maneuvering, but he manages to get Geralt to his bed with as little noise as possible.

“Alright,” Jaskier sets Geralt down on the bed gently, “let’s get this armour off.”  
  
Jaskier makes quick work of the straps and buckles, and soon Geralt is left in nothing by his undershirt and trousers. Geralt isn’t much help, most likely due to the fact that he’s truly and utterly soused, but Jaskier sets that aside for the time being. 

“There.” Jaskier draws back, giving Geralt a wry smile. “Rest up. Something tells me you’re going to have a hell of a headache tomorrow.”

Geralt reaches out, taking Jaskier’s hand in his own and halting his retreat.

“Stay.”

The grip is gentle, almost... fragile. It would only take the slightest effort to break.

And Jaskier does, pulling away gently so he can unbutton his own jacket more easily. He throws it over the back of a chair and takes his trousers off as well, leaving himself in his undershirt and pants, before climbing into Geralt’s bed.

Slowly, yet clumsily, as though Jaskier is some frightened rabbit that will startle and flee at the first sudden movement, Geralt joins him under the blanket. He looks at Jaskier like he might disappear the second he takes his eyes off of him, like he can’t quite believe he’s really there.

“Talk to me,” Jaskier says softly.

“He said you were leaving with him.”

Jaskier frowns. “Who did?”

Geralt wraps an arm around Jaskier’s back, tugging him closer.

“Lambert.”

It takes a moment for the pieces to click into place, but when they do, Jaskier’s tone is equal parts exasperation and fondness, “And you didn’t think to, I don’t know, ask me about it?”

_Or tell me you wanted me to stay?_

“I didn’t – ” Geralt lowers his eyes from Jaskier’s, “ – want to make you feel like you had to.”

And Jaskier thinks that Destiny must really, truly have it out for him, otherwise he’d never fallen in love with such a thick-headed fool. There are a million words on Jaskier’s tongue begging to be set free, words full of heartache and devotion for this man that want to fall forth like water bursting from a dam.

But Jaskier swallows them down and drowns in them instead.  
  
“You – ” Jaskier pokes Geralt’s forehead with his finger, “You’re allowed to ask for things, you know. Even if you don’t get them in the end.”

Geralt’s brow furrows and Jaskier doesn’t bother waiting for a response that will never come, taking his finger back and tucking himself into Geralt’s shoulder.

“So next time, just... _ask me_.”

There’s silence, and Jaskier can’t even hear Geralt’s breath, can only feel the slight movement of his chest. Then Geralt shifts, making himself comfortable as well, and his grip on Jaskier becomes less tentative and more... sure.

“Stay?” Geralt asks softly, barely more than a whisper.

Jaskier lets his arm settle around Geralt’s waist, and hums his answer into Geralt’s shoulder. “Okay.”

And when Jaskier wakes the next morning, before he has to go downstairs and fetch ingredients for his tried and tested hangover cure, it’s to the sight of Geralt snoring. The light of the just-waking sun plays across his features, making him look even more carefree in sleep than he normally does. And the sight of him fills Jaskier’s chest with a gentle warmth, his heart aching in soft wonder.

Later, when he’s facing an irate innkeeper and offering up an ungodly amount of coin in compensation for the ale Geralt drank away, he’ll make a show of cursing Destiny out for ever putting the man back in his path. But right now, in the soft unreality of a world asleep while he lies wide awake, he thanks her from the very depths of his being.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, hope you enjoy this chapter, thank you for all your kind comments and kudos :)  
> They really help me to keep writing.

“Like this?”

A harsh, discordant note rings out and Jaskier can’t help but wince.

“Not quite, here,” He moves over, positioning the lute in her hands better, “try to _pluck_ the strings, not strum them.”

Ciri nods intently, and Jaskier can’t help but smile at the seriousness of her focus. She gives it another go, and this time a much more melodious note echoes around their camp.

“I did it!” Ciri looks up at him with an excitement only matched by his own.

“You did!” He gives her a high five, laughing, “We’ll make a bard of you yet.”

Ciri gives her head a slight shake. “I don’t think performing’s for me.”

“Oh, is that so?” Jaskier follows her gaze to where Geralt is working to get a fire started, before turning back to her with a raised eyebrow and a smirk, “Have any thoughts as to what might be?”

Ciri gives him a look, but there’s some genuine concern in her eyes, as though she’s afraid of what might happen if the elephant in the room were ever to be spoken out loud. And, well, Jaskier can’t imagine Geralt being immediately for it to be honest, so, for now, he keeps his mouth tactfully closed. For the most part.

“Alas,” Jaskier sighs, shaking his head, “the bardic arts lose another bright star, and my heart breaks once more.”

Ciri smirks, “Can you ever forgive me?”

“It will take some time,” Jaskier reaches forward and takes the lute back from her with another sorrowful shake of his head, “but so long as you promise not to start speaking in grunts and growls, or one-word sentences, then I think I can manage it.”

“Ciri,” Geralt calls out, nodding his head towards her bed roll, “bed.”

Jaskier and Ciri share a look, and a few snorts of laughter, before Ciri pushes herself to her feet and begins to walk over. She pauses briefly by the fire to press a quick kiss to the side of Geralt’s head, and is securely in her bed roll by the time Jaskier sits down next to Geralt at the now roaring fire.

“Tell me,” Jaskier leans closer to Geralt, his voice a low whisper, “would it _actually_ kill you to use more than ten words a day, or is it purely a personal choice?”

“You use enough for both of us,” Geralt murmurs back, placing another log on the fire.

“Hazard of the trade,” Jaskier shuffles slightly closer to the fire, holding his hands up to it to warm them.

“Found an apprentice worthy of passing it down to?” Geralt asks, giving a slight nod towards Ciri.

Jaskier sighs. “Unfortunately, she’s decided her talents are better suited to other, more sword heavy, pursuits. Fencing, maybe?”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s gaze lingers on Ciri before he returns it to the fire.

“Unfortunately, I’m not much use with a sword. Never was, really.” Jaskier tilts his head thoughtfully at Geralt, “You, though, you’re an expert. I’m sure she’d be thrilled to learn a thing or two from you.”

Geralt doesn’t reply, and Jaskier nudges his shoulder gently. “C’mon, it’d be good for her. Give her something to focus on. Besides, if you don’t teach her, I’m sure she’ll find someone else who will... Lambert, maybe? He’s decent enough with a sword – ”

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” Geralt asks dryly, but there’s no real bite to his words.

“Nope,” Jaskier pops the ‘p’, giving Geralt a grin, “not until you agree.”

Geralt’s shoulders heave with a quiet sigh, but a smirk plays across his lips. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Excellent,” Jaskier clasps his hands together, “Do you want to tell her or should I?”

Geralt looks at Ciri the way he always does when he thinks she can’t see him, with an unbearable fondness in his eyes; his normally hard features softened by it. “I’ll tell her.”

Jaskier smiles as he watches Geralt watch her, not quite managing to cover up his quiet observation in time.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just,” Jaskier shrugs, “it’s nice to see you happy, is all. Reminds me what a big softie you are beneath all that armour. More like a little puppy than a big bad wolf.”

“A puppy,” Geralt repeats flatly.

“The cutest, softest one I ever did see,” Jaskier teases, trying to hide his laughter when Geralt simply stares at him. He looks as though he doesn’t know how to react, caught between brushing it off with an eye roll and demanding Jaskier explain his reasoning. Eventually, he settles on the eye roll, Jaskier manages to get his giggles under control, and the two of them fall into an easy silence. And together, they watch as the flames dance the evening away.

* * *

Jaskier doesn’t understand why he’s awake at first, blearily blinking up at the late evening, or maybe pre-morning, darkness with his brows furrowed.

And then he hears the scream.

He scrambles towards the sound, getting tangled up in his bedroll momentarily before kicking himself free of it, and reaches the source of it just after Geralt does.

“Ciri,” Jaskier kneels down beside her, taking her shoulder and shaking her gently, “Ciri, wake up, it’s just a nightmare – ”

Ciri gives another throat tearing scream, thrashing against Jaskier’s hold, and behind him he hears some of the boulders surrounding their camp fracture into a million tiny pieces.

“Ciri – ” Jaskier tries again to shake her out of it, but all she does is thrash harder, alternating between groaning and wailing, “She’s – she’s not waking up – Geralt – !”  
  
 _“Ciri!”_

It’s the loudest Jaskier’s ever heard Geralt yell, and he’d bet his favourite quill that there’s some magic sown into the syllables, even if he didn’t feel the tell-tale prickle of chaos over his skin. Thankfully, first time’s the charm, and Ciri’s eyes fly open with a sharp gasp; orbs of blue wide and terrified in her pale face. Jaskier’s sure he barely looks any better, and Geralt’s jaw is clenched so tight it’ll be a miracle if his teeth haven’t already been ground to dust.

“Sh sh sh,” Jaskier soothes, stroking the hair back from her face, “it’s alright, you’re alright.”

Ciri’s eyes stare into his without really seeing them at first. And then, gradually, the fear from the nightmare begins to fade away as reality reasserts itself once more. She blinks, exhaling a long shuddering breath, closing her eyes as she clutches Jaskier’s shirt with one hand and Geralt’s with the other. Eventually, when her breaths no longer sound like gasps and her body has mostly stopped trembling, she opens her eyes again.

“There, it’s alright,” Jaskier tells her again, “it was just a nightmare.”

Ciri nods, but she still holds their shirts so tight her hands shake.

Jaskier hesitates, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Ciri shakes her head violently, and Jaskier is quick to walk back the question, “Okay, okay, you don’t have to, we can – ” Jaskier gestures to the three of them, “ – we can just stay here with you for a while, would – would that be okay?”

Ciri nods, appearing to relax, if only slightly, at the suggestion, only to tense again as Jaskier starts to move away.

“Don’t worry, I’m coming right back, I’m just going to grab the bedrolls,” Jaskier assures her, and after a moment of hesitation she relinquishes her grip on his shirt. 

True to his word, Jaskier’s barely gone for a moment, handing Geralt’s bedroll to him before returning to place his on the other side of Ciri. Once he has it set up, he lies down next to her and takes her hand gently into his. Ciri squeezes his hand back a touch too hard, and then moves to take Geralt’s hand into her other one as well. Geralt lets her, and soon she is lying on her back again with her eyes staring at the starless sky above. And Jaskier watches quietly as those eyes go from alert, to hazy with fatigue, to closed, and listens to her breaths slowly but surely even out until they become gentle snores.

“Bastards, aren’t they?” Jaskier says, his voice barely more than a whisper, “Nightmares, I mean.”

Past Ciri, Jaskier can see Geralt raise an eyebrow at him.

“I know, I know, I’m not exactly saying anything _revolutionary_ here but,” Jaskier shrugs, “you forget how bad they can get. At least, I did. Especially when – ” Jaskier looks at Ciri, his throat thick and chest heavy, “ – when they happen to the people that least deserve them.”

He can feel Geralt’s eyes linger on him before they return their focus to Ciri, and sees him nod slightly. “Bastards.”

Jaskier’s lips quirk into a smirk. “You know, I half expected you to give me some speech about how they’re a good thing. That they mean you’ve still got a soul left to be haunted by them or something.”

“Aren’t you always telling me I don’t use enough words?” Geralt asks dryly, his voice a low rumble, “What makes you think I’d have enough for a speech?”

“Well, not a long speech obviously,” Jaskier’s eyes twinkle with mischief, “short and sweet and full of devastating wisdom. Maybe... three lines or less?”

“Hmm,” Geralt lips twitch into a smile as he lets out a soft laugh, and the sight of it brings a smile to Jaskier’s lips as well.

A gentle silence blankets them after that, and Jaskier is almost asleep again when he hears Geralt speak.

“I dream of the trials sometimes,” Geralt’s eyes are looking past Jaskier, to something only he can see, “feel the fear as though it were happening all over again. As though I was becoming... _this_ all over again.” He shifts his gaze to Jaskier’s, “Sometimes there’s no reason. Sometimes a thing just hurts.”

Jaskier swallows down the urge to reach forward to try and take the memory from him, be it with a gentle press of his lips or by smoothing out the lines on his forehead with a careful hand. Even if they were... even if things between them were... were like _that,_ there’s no way he could reach out without risking waking Ciri.

Instead –

“I dream of being lost,” Jaskier tells him, “of being alone in some old dark wood or forgotten ruin. There’s no sound. No birdsong or – or – or the shuffling of other animals. And when I finally get desperate enough to scream, I can’t. The sound gets stuck in my throat and nothing can get past it, not even breath. And the harder I try to force it free, the more it chokes me from the inside out.” He takes a deep breath to try and calm himself, shuddering slightly at the reminder of the panic that claws at his chest while he claws for breath.

He meets Geralt’s eyes with a wry smile. “Though, between that and the one where I’m forced to listen to Valdo Marx perform his entire collection of works, I’m still not entirely sure which is worse.”

Ciri shifts in her sleep, letting go of both of their hands in order to curl up on her side facing Geralt, and Jaskier takes the opportunity to flex his hand. He’s in the middle off working out the stiffness of holding one position for so long when he feels a gentle pressure against the side of his face.

Geralt is reaching over, cupping Jaskier’s face in his hand, his thumb stroking his cheek softly, tenderly. And Jaskier could swear that his eyes hold that same unbearable fondness that they do when they look at Ciri.

“Nightmares,” Geralt murmurs, “fuck them.”

Jaskier laughs softly, smiling as he agrees, “Fuck ‘em.”

Geralt holds Jaskier’s face for a moment more before moving his hand to his waist, tugging him closer as the three of them well and truly cuddle up together.

In the morning, Ciri pokes Jaskier’s face until he awakes, complaining about how she’s being squished. The two of them spending an uncomfortable few minutes trying to wiggle out from under Geralt’s grip before he finally wakes up and lets them go. And despite his grousing about witchers and death grips, Jaskier finds himself thinking he wouldn’t mind _too_ much if he had to wake up like this every day for the rest of his life.

* * *

“Thank the gods,” Jaskier moans, stumbling towards the edge of his salvation, “I thought I was going to die.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt calls out from where he’s securing Roach, “wait – ”

Jaskier ignores him, splashing loudly into the river and welcoming its cool embrace as it washes away the slick sweat that covers every inch of him. He hears Geralt growl something from the riverbank, and turns to see him glowering at Jaskier with his arms folded across his chest. As though that’s ever worked before.

Jaskier grins, waving him and Ciri over, “Come on in, the water’s fine!”

“Unless it’s full of drowners, rusalki, sprites – ”

Jaskier shrugs, “Well, I figured you wouldn’t have made camp here if you smelled anything fishy.”

Ciri snorts, quickly trying to hide it when Geralt turns his gaze on her.

“So?” Jaskier looks at Geralt expectantly, “Am I about to be torn to shreds, or are you coming in?”

Geralt glares at him, but the heat must be getting to him as much as the rest of them, because it isn’t long before he’s taking his swords off his back and stripping out of his armour.

Ciri is in the river in an instant, splashing through and sinking down with a yelp of delight, swimming over to Jaskier with a grin. He greets her with a grin of his own, turning back to the riverbank and gesturing for Geralt to hurry up, “Come on, Geralt!”

Geralt rolls his eyes and finally steps into the river as well, and when it gets deep enough to swim, he turns over and floats on his back with a sigh.

They all spend a few minutes getting accustomed to the chill of the water, and then Jaskier and Ciri meet each other’s eyes with near identical wicked grins.

Geralt isn’t suspecting the first splash, and he’s barely recovered by the time Jaskier hits him with the second from behind. He looks between Jaskier and Ciri, understanding slowly dawning on his face. And Jaskier thinks Geralt’s about to just sigh exasperatedly and go back to floating when he gets hit by a literal _tidal wave_ of water, spluttering uselessly as Ciri moves to avenge him.

And then the splash war truly begins.

Jaskier is unsure who’s winning or losing, caught between splashing wildly in Geralt’s general direction and constantly rubbing water out of his eyes, when an arm wraps around his waist and he’s tugged back against a broad chest. “Oi!”

He turns his head to see Geralt engaged in a staring match with Ciri, holding Jaskier in front of him like some sort of human shield.

“Go for it, Ciri!” Jaskier calls, trying in vain to struggle against Geralt’s grip, “Get him!”

“Do it, and Jaskier goes down with me,” Geralt tells her, neither tightening nor loosening his grip, just holding Jaskier there with frustrating ease.

Ciri looks at Jaskier solemnly, “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier nods back just as solemnly, closing his eyes as he prepares for the splash. Only, it doesn’t come. And he opens his eyes again to see Ciri holding up her hands in surrender.

After a moment, the hand retreats from Jaskier’s waist and he’s free again. Jaskier and Ciri share a look, an unspoken understanding passing between them, and then Jaskier tries to land one last splash on Geralt with all his might.

Geralt catches his wrist before he can manage it, wrapping his other arm around Jaskier’s waist and pulling him close once more. “Fighting dirty?”

“You started it,” Jaskier shrugs, “besides, it’s like you told Ciri the other night. Lesson one: in a real fight, there’s no such thing as fighting dirty.”

“Hmm,” Geralt looks at him, considering, “didn’t think you were listening.”

“What, and miss the show?” Jaskier teases, “You two were very focused on all your sword fighting and sword... ducking. It was cute.”

“Not the word I would have gone with.”

“Lucky I’m the poet then.”

Geralt’s lips twitch into a smile. “Lucky.”

Jaskier looks back at him, chest filled with that soft warmth, and a smile starts to curl his own lips - 

And then a wave of water hits them both.

They both startle at it, Geralt loosing his footing and toppling them over. Jaskier comes up spluttering, Geralt’s face covered in dark clouds, and Ciri smirks down triumphantly at the both of them.  
  
“Lesson two: never turn your back on an enemy.”

She does a victory lap around the two of them as they sit there, stunned, but it’s a short-lived celebration as soon another round of the splash war soon starts up. This time, with Geralt and Jaskier working together to try and take down a tyrannical Ciri.

By the time _that’s_ finished it’s all they can do to let themselves float and stare at the blue sky above. And Jaskier tries not to think about anything other than how sore his sides are from laughing.

* * *

“Here you are,” the innkeeper slides a pint towards Jaskier with a friendly wink, “on the house.”

“Oh, no, really, I couldn’t – ” Jaskier protests.

“Course you can,” the innkeeper pushes the pint closer to him, “take it as thanks for your performance. Brought in twice as much coin as usual for me.”

Truth be told, it had been quite the performance. There’d been so much singing and stomping along to Jaskier’s lute that he’d been sure the very building was shaking with the force of it all. He’d finally had to beg off, much to the disappointment of the tavern’s patrons, because his voice had started to go hoarse. Well, that and his coin purse was near to overflowing. However, despite their entreats for him to continue, the patrons’ own fatigue must have finally hit them once his melodies ceased, because most have either already made their way home or are in the process of doing so; leaving only a few sparsely populated tables throughout the room. 

“Well,” Jaskier makes a show of hesitating the polite amount before taking the ale with a grateful smile, “in that case, cheers.”

He’s about to raise it to his lips when it gets knocked out of his hands, spilling all over the floor and his shoes.

“So, it’s not enough that you let that mutant freak stay here,” a low voice growls to Jaskier’s left, “now you’re giving his pet our ale as well?”

 _“Pet?”_ Jaskier turns to see a man with greasy brown hair and a scraggly beard glowering down at him. He looks familiar, and Jaskier realizes that’s because it’s the same man who’d spent the last few hours trying to bore a hole through Jaskier’s skull with his eyes alone. Ale is practically rising off the man in nose-wrinkling lines of stench, and frankly at this point Jaskier’s impressed he can still stand.

The innkeeper’s lips tighten and she crosses her arms over her chest, “You’ve drunk more than your fair share for one evening, Stefan. And even if you hadn’t, we’ve got enough to go around.”

Stefan ignores her, gaze solely focused on Jaskier, “Should’ve shown ‘em the door the moment they came in. Nothing good can come of things like him.”

“And then what?” The innkeeper asks exasperatedly, “You would’ve taken your shovel and gone to cave in our monster’s head yourself? You saw how well that went for Olgierd.”

“I have to agree with her,” Jaskier stage whispers, “you’d be more than a little fucked if you tried to have a go at it yourself. I’d tell you to feel free to give it a try though, if I didn’t think you’d just get in Geralt’s way.”

Stefan’s face turns an impressive shade of red, “I’m worth fifty of that whoreson.”

“Again,” Jaskier slides off the barstool, “have to disagree with you there. Not only is Geralt stronger, faster, and far, _far_ , more adept at killing all the things that go bump in the night than your average man, he’s also loyal, honourable, and kind to a fault. _And_ he has the sharpest wit on the whole Continent, other than myself, of course. And you? Well,” He pats Stefan’s shoulder, gazing at him sympathetically, “I’ve seen sheep with more wit than you.” 

Stefan shoves him off and Jaskier stumbles backwards from the force of it. 

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Stefan snarls, hands curling into fists at his side.

“I do hold several degrees.”

Jaskier’s seen enough bar fights to know when a blow is imminent, and he glances around for an escape route should this fellow decide he wants to try and teach him a lesson with those grimy fists of his now that he’s failed to eviscerate him with his words.  
  
But before he can so much as take a single step, the tavern door creaks open. The creak and groan of the wood and its hinges are made louder by the hushed stillness that had fallen over the room as their little pre-barfight scene began to play out. And so, everyone’s attention is naturally pulled to the door and the one walking through it. 

“Ah, Geralt,” Jaskier tries to inject some levity into his voice, walking over to him with a smile, “You’re back. Finished already?”

Geralt gives him a nod but doesn’t meet his gaze, glancing around the room carefully instead. Likely looking for the source of the odd tension in the air. “Left the head with the alderman.”

“Sounds like a celebration is in order,” Jaskier says, grabbing Geralt’s arm and stopping just short of dragging him through the tavern, “you go upstairs and I’ll call you up a bath and some food, maybe a little ale? Or mead, or wine, or whatever you’re feeling. You can tell me on the way – ”

Geralt twists out of Jaskier’s grip, grabbing _his_ arm instead and tugging Jaskier behind him. Jaskier barely has time to protest the move before the harsh clash of metal against metal rings out and he sees Geralt blocking a rather pitiful looking dagger with one of his swords.

“We don’t need your kind ‘round here, mutant!” Stefan snarls, clearly having gone from malcontent to raving lunatic in the few seconds he’s been out of Jaskier’s sight. He draws back and tries to lunge forward again with the dagger, more like butter knife, really, but Geralt easily blocks it again.

Stefan stumbles backwards from the force of the parry, his face growing redder and redder each time his arse is handed to him. “Damn freak!”

“Melitele’s tits, could you just fuck off already?” Jaskier groans, trying to move out from behind Geralt only to be held back by the witcher’s other hand, “In case you’ve gone deaf as well as dumb, he just saved your life; saved all of your lives!” He calls the last bit out a bit louder, projecting at all the people suddenly far more interested in their tankards than they were a minute ago.

“And what’ll he ask in return?” Stefan looks around the tavern for support, but no one meets his eyes either, “We’ve all heard the stories. Oh, a witcher’ll kill your monster for you, sure as hell, but everyone knows they prefer to be payed in children, not coin.”

Stefan nods upstairs. “I’ll bet that girl’s one of your prizes. Which mother did you steal her from then?”

“You – ” Anger burns hot and fierce through Jaskier’s veins and he tries to push past Geralt again, but he’s held back as easily as that damn dagger was deflected. 

“I’ve already taken coin for your monster,” Geralt speaks over Jaskier, his eyes not leaving Stefan’s, “I’m not looking for further payment. Of any kind.”

“So _fuck off_ ,” Jaskier snaps.

Stefan’s gaze shifts from Geralt to Jaskier in an instant, and he points his dagger at the bard in a manner that is probably supposed to seem threatening.

“Someone oughta teach you a lesson about what happens when you side with freaks instead of your own kind – ”

Steel sings through the air and all of a sudden Stefan isn’t holding a dagger anymore but a hilt, the used-to-be-blade lying in shattered pieces on the floor, while Geralt’s own, still very much intact, blade is pointed at his throat.

“Try it,” Geralt says, his voice a low growl, “and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

Stefan’s face is no longer red but pure white, eyes wide, and the hand that holds the hilt trembles visibly.

“Alright, that’s enough,” the innkeeper calls out, “Milan, Robert, take Stefan and get the hell out of my tavern.”

Two men come forward, grabbing Stefan and fleeing as fast as their feet, and the alcohol sitting heavy in their bellies, will let them. The innkeeper watches to make sure they leave before turning back to Geralt and Jaskier.

“You alright?”

Geralt nods, sheathing his sword, and Jaskier shrugs, “We’ve had worse evenings.”

The innkeeper doesn’t seem amused by Jaskier’s attempt at humour, lips thin as she nods towards the stairs, “Probably best if you turn in for the night.”

Geralt gives another nod, taking Jaskier by the arm and continuing their ascent up the stairs that Stefan so rudely interrupted. Jaskier lets him lead without complaint, mind already whirring away.

When they make it to the room, Jaskier makes a beeline for his pack, setting it up on the room’s small table before pulling out his parchment and quill.

“What are you doing?” Geralt asks.

“Clearly, the tales of your exploits haven’t reached as far as I thought,” Jaskier lays out his writing accoutrements before returning to his pack and rummaging around for his ink, “so, I’m penning some hopefully far more far-reaching melodies that’ll be explicit enough to pierce even the thickest of skulls.”

“Now?”

“No time like the present,” Jaskier mutters, “and obviously there’s a lot of work to be done. Which I could be getting to a lot faster if I could remember where I put my ink.”

There’s a soft thump as Geralt slides off his swords, resting them against the end of the bed, “People will say what they want.”

“So, I should just stand back and listen?” Jaskier scoffs, “No, I’ve spent a good chunk of my life trying to make sure people have a good impression of you, and I’m not about to give up now just because some yokels refuse to get the message.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighs, “it doesn’t matter – ”

“Of course, it matters!” Jaskier explodes, “you deserve better than to be spat on or – or – or kicked out of taverns or maligned by misanthropic miscreants like – like you’re some sort of disease or – or monster instead of – ” Jaskier gestures at him helplessly, “ – of _you._ You are the bravest, kindest, most foolish man I know, and you deserve every kind word the world has to give. And I am going to make sure they give you every last one as soon as I find this fucking ink!”

Jaskier slams his hands on the table, bowing his head and trying to breathe through the anger threatening to choke him from the inside out. But as soon as the hot rage fades, the sheer frustration of it all takes its place, and Jaskier’s eyes sting with it.

“It isn’t fair,” Jaskier shakes his head, hands clenching into fists, “it isn’t... right. The way they treat you. I just – ”

He looks up at Geralt helplessly, “I just want to help you.”

Geralt stares back at him wordlessly, looking just as lost as Jaskier feels.

“And this,” Jaskier turns back to his pack, closing his eyes and taking another deep breath to steady himself before giving a sharp nod, “this is how I do that. So – ”

“You do that already.”

“Do what already?” Jaskier doesn’t look up this time, keeping his focus on the pack.

“Help me.” Geralt places a hand on Jaskier’s arm, stopping his search and drawing his gaze back to his, “With everything.”

Jaskier swallows thickly, “Geralt – ”  
  
“I don’t need every stranger’s kind words,” Geralt says softly, “just give me yours.”

Jaskier stares at him, wordless for the first time in a long time, before dropping his gaze with a soft huff of laughter, “If that’s the best you’ve got, I’m starting to think it’s a good thing you’re better with a sword than a lute.”

“Like you said,” Geralt’s lips twitch into a smile, “lucky you’re the poet.”

Jaskier lets out another small laugh, pulling his hand out from under Geralt’s grip and using it to wipe the tears that definitely don’t exist from his eyes, “ _Gods_. I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking knackered. What do you say we – ”

He trails off as Geralt wraps his arms around him, pulling him into a gentle hug. Jaskier hesitates for a moment before returning it.

“Thank you,” Geralt murmurs, his lips brushing the side of Jaskier’s head, “for staying.”

Jaskier feels his eyes sting with tears once again, and he hides them in the crook of Geralt’s neck with a strained laugh, “Big idiot – that’s not something you need to thank me for.”

“Yes,” Geralt says simply, stroking Jaskier’s hair as though he’s the most precious thing in the whole world instead of just... him. “It is.”

Jaskier doesn’t answer, all the words he could say stuck in his throat behind the three he never can. Instead, he tightens his grip, fingers digging into the back of Geralt’s armour, and lets himself be held; safe and secure in the arms of his love.

* * *

“What do you think?”

Ciri gives a twirl, the fur lined cape swirling out around her like a dress would, and Jaskier gives an approving hum, “Looks like it fits. How does it feel?”

“Soft,” Ciri runs her fingers over the soft fur lining, “and warm.”

“Good to know that fur isn’t just for show,” Jaskier turns back to the selection, brow furrowed thoughtfully, “Do you like the colour? Or would you prefer – ”

“So long as it does its job, the colour doesn’t matter,” Geralt grouses from behind him.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, “This from the man that once wore a bright yellow shirt with lime green spots.”

“It did its job.”

“Of blinding everyone within two miles of it?”

“The colour’s fine,” Ciri interrupts, sliding out of the coat and handing it to Jaskier with an eye roll of her own, “Besides, it’ll probably be covered in snow the whole time.”

“Not if we leave by tomorrow,” Geralt tells her, keeping his gaze on Jaskier, “which won’t be possible if we spend all day here.”

“Yes, alright, message received,” Jaskier reaches for the cloak slung over Geralt’s arm impatiently, “I’ll go pay for these, you two can wait outside – ”

“We still need one for you,” Geralt takes the cloak from Jaskier instead, slinging it over his arm before handing him another, much longer one, “here, try this.”

“Ah,” Jaskier takes the cloak uncertainly, “I’m... coming with you, then?”

Geralt and Ciri both look at him as though he’s grown another head, as though he’s crazy for ever thinking he’d _not_ be invited to a super-secret witcher stronghold hidden in some forgotten mountain valley. And sure, maybe there hadn’t been any talk of Jaskier _not_ coming with them as they made their way to Oxenfurt for supplies, but he’d figured that they were waiting until the last possible moment to make their goodbyes. Leaving him safely behind in the city to wait for them, or not, until spring.

And then Geralt shifts from incredulous to almost... uncertain.  
  
“If you don’t want to – ”

“No, no,” Jaskier hurries to say, “I very much do. Want to, that is. I just... ” He trails off wordlessly before covering the lapse with an awkward cough, “I’ll just, uh, try this on then.”

He puts on the cloak, fastening it and putting up the hood, pausing a moment to revel in its softness and warmth before giving a little twirl of his own.

“How do I look?”

“Weird,” Ciri says, smirking, “but the cloak is nice.”

Jaskier sticks his tongue out at her and she laughs, Geralt rolling his eyes at the both of them before reaching out and taking the cloak back from Jaskier.

“I’ll go pay for them. Alone,” Geralt tacks on before Jaskier can offer to join him, “so you don’t ‘haggle’ the price _up_ again.”

Jaskier huffs, “That was – clearly, that man was already having a bad day well before I arrived – ”

“Ciri,” Geralt heads over to the shopkeeper as though Jaskier hadn’t spoken, and Ciri tugs Jaskier out the shop before he can protest any further.

“Traitor,” Jaskier tells her, but it doesn’t have any real bite to it.

Ciri raises an eyebrow at him, “We _did_ have to pay five crowns more.”

“I would’ve gotten him back down if Geralt hadn’t stepped in,” Jaskier declares, waving a hand errantly.

“He threatened to stab you.”

“Details.”

Ciri answers with another eye roll. 

“You do that too hard and they’ll pop right out of your head.”

“Yours and Geralt’s seem fine.”

“ _Touché_ ,” Jaskier hides his smirk with a long-suffering sigh, “Whatever happened to respecting your elders?” 

“Whatever happened to elders being respectable?”

“And she lands another blow!” Jaskier puts a hand over his chest, pretending as though he’d been struck by an actual blade instead of Ciri’s cutting words, “How will I ever recover from it?”

“You always seem to find a way,” Ciri’s smirk slips into something more serious, brow furrowed slightly, “Why did you think you weren’t coming with us?”

“I... ” Jaskier hesitates before giving a slight shrug, “force of habit, I suppose. I’ve never been before so I just figured... this time wouldn’t be any different.”

Ciri frowns, “Why haven’t you been before?”

Jaskier shrugs again, keeping his body carefully lax, “Geralt never asked.”

Ciri looks at him, and he could swear that she almost seems... exasperated. Though whether it’s at him or Geralt or the uneven cobblestones beneath their feet, Jaskier can’t say. As for the why, well, that’s not any clearer, and before he can ask her about it, the shop door opens behind them and Geralt steps out.

He glances between the two of them, raising an eyebrow slightly, “Something wrong?”

Jaskier opens his mouth to answer but before the words are even half formed on his tongue, he's interrupted by the sound of hooves rapidly approaching.

Geralt is next to them in an instant, pulling Jaskier and Ciri behind him and drawing his sword. Though, it doesn’t do much good, as the three of them are soon surrounded by men on horseback; all of whom have swords of their own.

“Geralt of Rivia?” The one directly in front of them asks, and judging by how these things usually work, Jaskier takes that to mean he’s the one in charge.

Geralt holds his position, sword held at the ready, “Who wants to know?”

“My name is Leszek,” the same man answers, “my lord requests your presence at his manor.” 

“Funny,” Jaskier mutters, eyeing the other men encircling them, “doesn’t feel like much of a _request_.”

Leszek shrugs, “Take it how you will, but – ”

Every other thug takes out a crossbow and aims at the three of them, and Jaskier doesn’t need to count them to know there’s far too many for Geralt to try and block.

“ – no matter how you _feel_ about it, you’re coming with us.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, you might have noticed already, but the tags have been updated for this chapter, so be sure to check them out and make sure you're alright to continue. Hope you enjoy, mind the tags as you go.

As far as evil lairs go, Jaskier has to admit this one is fairly impressive.

It looms above their little retinue like a castle straight out of some painfully dramatic storybook, made that much more intimidating by the dark clouds above and the rapidly fading bleak light of day. There are two twisting towers trying their damndest to piece the sky, and Jaskier cranes his neck to get a better look at them as they walk beneath a particularly cruel looking iron gate.

Geralt doesn’t seems as preoccupied with documenting their surroundings as Jaskier is, instead keeping his face carefully neutral as they move through the courtyard and into the main building. Ciri, on the other hand, glares at every and anyone that makes the mistake of meeting her eyes, and Jaskier has never been prouder of her.

Eventually, after spending a good deal of time weaving their way through stone halls and winding staircases, they arrive at a rather plain looking wooden door. Leszek holds out a hand for them to stop before stepping forward and knocking briskly.

“Enter.”

Leszek opens the door and ushers Geralt, Jaskier, Ciri and about six other thugs through it. The room they ‘enter’ is smaller than Jaskier expected, more... cozy, perhaps, or... intimate. It’s lit by several strategically placed candles, casting them all in a soft orange haze, with a few moth-eaten tapestries hung on the wall and various knickknacks scattered about. What takes up the most space, however, is the long dining table in the centre of the room. There are twelve chairs surrounding it, but only the one at the head of the table is occupied. Sitting in said chair, is a man with greying hair, pale skin and fingers covered in the grease of whatever beast he is currently devouring. He doesn’t bother to look up at them, not even when Leszek gives an obviously fake cough to announce their presence again.

“My lord,” Leszek nods respectfully before stepping aside and allowing the man at the table a clearer view of the three of them, “Geralt of Rivia, as you requested.”

“Ah,” the man drops the mauled remains of his dinner, wiping his hands on his napkin before pushing himself to his feet, “so you’re the famous witcher.”

He waits until he’s about a foot or so from them before stopping and finally meeting Geralt’s eyes, smiling, “Lord Haine, at your service. Thank you for agreeing to my little... request.”

Jaskier snorts, “Pretty sure it’s only a ‘request’ if you can say no without getting an arrow in your back.”

Haine’s eyes flicker to his in an obvious attempt to intimidate him, but it’s nothing compared to Geralt’s scary face and, well, that’s never really worked on Jaskier either. 

“What do you want?” Geralt asks, pulling the Lord’s attention back to him, and shifting ever so slightly so that Jaskier and Ciri are a little better hidden behind him. Jaskier belatedly realizes that he should also be trying his best to keep Ciri hidden as much as possible, so he shifts himself accordingly.

Haine raises an eyebrow, amusement playing along his lips, “Straight to business, then? Well, it seems at least some of the rumours about you are true. You really are a man of few words.”

“I might have had more for you,” He keeps his voice even, but Jaskier can see the coiled muscles beneath Geralt’s skin, ready to spring into vicious action at the slightest provocation, “had you not forced this meeting.”

“Ah, well,” Haine shrugs, “as you’ll soon see, my cause is quite dire. Couldn’t take the chance you’d refuse to take it up for me, now could I?”

“And what is that exactly?” Geralt asks, “Your cause.”

“A missing person’s case – well, missing _people_ to be more precise. My head of house and daughter went to visit relatives in Novigrad a fortnight ago, and neither one of them has been heard from since.” Haine’s voice has taken on a much more serious quality, and his eyes shine with worry, “I want you to find them.”

It’s the kind of job that normally Geralt would have taken without a second thought, even with the time constraints they were under. And normally, Jaskier would be right behind him, but there’s something... off, about this whole thing. Something Jaskier can’t quite put his finger on. Though, the whole kidnapping thing is probably a good place to start.

So, the gods will have to forgive Jaskier for all but sighing in relief when Geralt answers with a shake of his head, “I can’t help you.”

“I can pay you whatever – ”

“It’s not about coin.”

Haine’s eyes narrow, jaw clenching, “And here I thought all that prattle about witchers not having emotions was pure superstition. But it turns out you’re as heartless as they say you are.”

“Oh ho, how _very_ original of you – ” Jaskier begins to rip this _lord_ a new one, but Geralt cuts him off by not so subtly stepping on his foot.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Geralt tells him, “but we have somewhere we need to be, and we can’t delay our departure. I wish you luck with your search,” he shakes his head again, “but I can’t help you.”

Haine’s eyes hold Geralt’s, an angry red flush dusting his noble cheeks, and Jaskier waits for him to fly at Geralt with his fists clenched.

But then Haine breathes out deeply, the tension easing from his shoulders, “I understand.”

And Jaskier has a moment, one single moment, to think perhaps they are all going to walk away from this with nothing more heinous than a few hours of lost time to show for it.

But then Haine snaps his fingers and two of the thugs grab Ciri.

“Get off!”

“Ciri!” Jaskier tries to lunge after her, only to nearly skewer himself on at least three of the five blades now pointed at he and Geralt. Geralt’s hand catches his forearm at the last possible moment, hauling him back to his side as he draws his sword with his other hand.

Ciri tries to kick the thugs away from her but they hold her in place, albeit not easily, and only Geralt’s grip on Jaskier’s arm prevents him from trying to reach her once again.

Geralt’s sword is pointed at Haine, eyes burning with a rage that Jaskier wishes he could feel too – wishes could burn away the nauseating, dizzying fear that grips him as he stares at Ciri held aloft and away from them. Jaskier meets her eyes and tries to project a calm that he doesn’t feel, but it doesn’t seem to make either of them any less terrified.

“Let her go.” Geralt says, each steady syllable bathed in such wrath that his words might as well be dragon fire. 

Unfortunately, Haine doesn’t appear as afraid of being turned to cinders as he should be.

“I don’t think so,” Haine crosses over to where his thugs are holding Ciri, a smug self-satisfied smirk on his face, and Jaskier has never wanted to punch a man this badly in his life, “Oh, I know what you’re thinking; you could cut through this room in a second, but I wonder,” Haine turns to look at Geralt, cocking his head to the side in mock curiosity, “could you cut through them before they cut through her?”

To illustrate his point, one of the other thugs moves over to where Ciri is still struggling to get away and holds his blade to her throat.

Jaskier goes cold, like the blood in his veins has suddenly been replaced with water from a glacial river. Geralt grips his sword so hard Jaskier distantly thinks the hilt might shatter, and it shouldn’t be funny as it is when he realizes that it doesn’t matter whether it does or not. Whole sword or broken sword they’re just as fucked.

“Find my people, and our business can conclude to our mutual satisfaction,” Haine walks back over to the table, giving Geralt one more slimy smirk that makes Jaskier’s skin crawl, “I’d so hate for us to part on anything less than good terms.”

And the thought of leaving, of walking out the front door, of having to spend the days or weeks or however long being haunted by what ifs, of _leaving her behind_ –

“Take me instead.” It takes Geralt’s shocked, barely there, exhale for Jaskier to realize he’s the one who’s spoken. But when he does, he doesn’t attempt to walk back his words. Rather, he doubles down instead. “You want to hold someone over Geralt’s head? Use me.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and Jaskier can feel Ciri’s eyes boring into the side of his head. And despite everything, or maybe because of it, he finds himself struggling not to laugh because he just _knows_ what looks the two of them are giving him right now. Just like he knows that even though Geralt makes sure to get two rooms when they can, two beds when they can’t, Ciri will sometimes still end up crawling into their bed when cruel reality seeps into the gentle land of her dreams. Just like he knows that Geralt will come back from a fight or a hunt insisting he’s fine, but he’ll ache and limp for a day or more if Jaskier doesn’t make a fuss over massaging lavender oil into his skin. Not the heavy scented, cloying kind, because that wrecks just as much havoc with his body as the sore muscles will, but a lighter, barely-there scent that will make Geralt hum softly and doze off as Jaskier does his best to take away the hurts he can reach.

The only thing he doesn't know, is just when the thought of a world without either of them in it became so unbearable.

Lorde Haine looks at Jaskier as though he’s some sort of fascinating science experiment that surprised him by clawing back instead of just rolling over and dying. He begins to walk towards them, crossing the floor in careful measured steps, “You would trade places with her?”

“In a heartbeat.”

There’s a swish of movement and suddenly Haine is raising his eyebrow at the blade pointed at his chest, preventing him from moving any further. At the same time, Jaskier feels Geralt tug him closer to him, growling under his breath. And Jaskier wants to look at Geralt, to tell him to – to let go or – or to hold tighter. He doesn’t know. But instead he keeps his gaze locked with Haine’s.

“Please,” Jaskier knows he’s begging at this point, but he can’t bring himself to give a damn if it means that blade leaving Ciri’s neck, “she’s a child. Let me take her place, and – and I swear I won’t try to run or – or – or escape or – anything. Just – _Please_. You have a daughter, how would you feel – ”

“Don’t presume to talk to me about my daughter,” Haine snarls, fiercer than any wyvern. But the loss of control seems to bother him when he realizes it, and he takes another deep breath to collect himself before meeting Jaskier’s eyes once again, “Perhaps it’s better that you do stay, it would certainly make a more... equitable trade when our dear witcher finally returns. Two of my people for two of yours.”

And that... hadn’t been what Jaskier had been hoping for exactly, but given any of their other options –

“Deal.”

“No.”

It’s a low rumble, barely enough sound to be anything other than a growl. Geralt doesn’t meet Jaskier’s eyes as he says it, keeping them locked on Haine’s instead. 

Jaskier takes a deep breath, “Geralt – ”

“No,” Geralt repeats, his grip on Jaskier tightening.

“Look,” Jaskier lowers his voice to a low murmur, just for the two of them, “ask yourself what’s worse: leaving both of us behind, or leaving Ciri here alone.”

Geralt meets his eyes, and Jaskier knows he’s reached the same conclusion as he had, jaw clenched tightly as his nostrils flare with anger. So, just as thrilled about it as Jaskier is then.

Jaskier places his hand over Geralt’s, “You’ll have found them in a day or two and be back by the third at most. And Ciri and I will be right here,” he gives Geralt's hand a gentle squeeze, “waiting for you.”

“You don’t know that,” Geralt says it so quietly that Jaskier can barely hear him.

“I do,” Jaskier offers Geralt a wry smile, his eyes never leaving his, “I know you.”

Geralt doesn’t take his hand from Jaskier’s arm, but he stands there and lets Jaskier do it for him. And Jaskier tries not to see Geralt trembling, almost imperceptibly so, either with rage or... something else, as he steps outside of Geralt’s reach, allowing the thugs to rush forward and grab him like they had Ciri.

“Well, now that’s settled,” Haine makes a motion with his hands and Jaskier and Ciri are being swept from the room like yesterday’s rubbish, “let’s discuss the details, shall we?”

Jaskier cranes his neck, trying to catch Geralt’s eyes and hold his gaze for as long as he can, but between the rush of bodies and the thick wooden door closing behind them, he doesn’t quite manage it. And as they continue to drag him and Ciri away, Jaskier tries to ignore how much hollower failing to do so leaves him.

* * *

“You shouldn’t have stayed.”

Jaskier’s lips quirk into a smirk, “Haven’t we been over this already?”

“Have you got any less stupid?” Ciri snaps back.

Jaskier sighs, “I’m starting to think I should walk around with my diplomas around my neck – ”

“I would have been fine on my own.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow at her, “And I wouldn’t?”

He’s aware it doesn’t come across as strong as he’d have liked, seeing that of the two of them, he’s the one with his hands literally tied behind his back.

“That’s not what I meant,” Ciri says, frustration infused in every word, and Jaskier thinks for a moment she might start knocking her head against the wall they’re both leaning against as they sit on the floor.

“I know, and I know you’d have been fine,” Jaskier shrugs, “but you can’t blame me for wanting to make _sure_ you are. Who else is going to listen to my stories if something happens to you?”

Ciri lets out a huff, but seems to relax slightly, even if it’s against her best efforts, “You could always tell them to Geralt.”

“I did say _listen_ , didn’t I? Not just _hear_.”

Ciri smirks, “What about people at the academy?”

“What, that lot? Obsequious sycophants, each and every one of them,” Jaskier gently nudges her shoulder with his, “you, are a much more discerning critic. And I have to admit,” Jaskier nods at the room around them, “I’ve stayed in worse places.”

Two days ago, when they’d first entered into this little deal with Haine, Jaskier had been expecting the two of them would be led down deep into the bowels of the castle, right to a dungeon straight out of his nightmares. Instead, they’d been taken up a few flights of stairs and tossed into what appears to be a guest room; complete with a privacy screen, and grand, four poster bed. Though, Jaskier’s not sure whether the room is meant for their comfort, or to prevent Geralt from finding them were he to try and mount a rescue effort. The rough rope currently cutting into his wrists would suggest the latter, and even if it were the former – 

“A golden cage is still a cage,” Ciri quietly finishes his thought.

Jaskier gives her a proud smile, “Well, looks like _someone’s_ been keeping up with their classics.”

Ciri rolls her eyes and nudges his shoulder like he had hers. But all the good humour that has settled between them evaporates in an instant when the door to the room flies open with a bang.

Leszek walks into the room, flanked by two other thugs on each side, arms crossed over his chest as he stares down at the two of them.

“Lord Haine requests your presence.”

* * *

Ciri looks as uncomfortable in her borrowed clothes as Jaskier feels in his, despite their obvious luxury. The dark green dress fits her well, apart from being just a bit too wide at the shoulders, and the silver filigree along the sleeves and the hem of the skirt make the outfit look that much more beautiful. His own clothes, in contrast, consist of a doublet, an undershirt and a pair of trousers. They are a deep golden-brown colour, with the doublet made up of a buttercup floral pattern, and feel soft against his skin. They also fit him surprisingly well, which he finds rather... odd. Ciri’s clothes can be explained away easily, they obviously belong to Haine’s daughter, but Jaskier’s –

“Penny for your thoughts, bard?”

Jaskier comes back to earth with a thump, turning to see Haine staring at him intently, his wine glass full for the fourth time tonight and a dark flush to his cheeks.

“Just... admiring the decor,” Jaskier glances around the room again for good measure. 

Luckily, Haine seems to buy it, nodding in agreement as his glass tips dangerously in his hands, “Milos, my head of house was responsible for it. Said he wanted to make it as ‘homey’ as possible.”

He brings the glass up to his mouth, draining it in one go, before reaching for the bottle once more and refilling it, “Perhaps when your witcher returns him and my daughter, the two of you can discuss it. From your tastes, I think the two of you would have much in common.”

“Kidnap him too, did you?”

Haine laughs, throwing his head back in an ugly chuckle, “Seems I was right; you both have quite the mouth on you.”

“Geralt will want us to leave right away,” Ciri interrupts, pulling Haine’s focus from Jaskier to her, “we won’t have time to chat.”

Venom drips openly from her every word, and Haine’s face goes red with something other than wine.

“So, perhaps you could tell me more about him instead?” Jaskier asks, reaching forward and placing his hand over Haine’s, desperate to direct his ire away from Ciri.

The guards standing at the door move forward as though to pull Jaskier back, perhaps tie his hands behind his back again, but Haine waves them off with his other hand – not quite managing to avoid spilling some wine this time. He doesn’t seem to notice it however, his eyes locked with Jaskier’s as he gives a slight nod.

“He... likes to sing. Dance as well, but he’s terrible at it.”

“Isn’t everyone?” Jaskier jokes half-heartedly, but Haine falls to notice the lack of humour and chuckles.

“Maybe,” Haine pauses to down his glass, setting it on the table once he’s finished rather than refilling it, “He has no room for nonsense when it comes to his duties and the other servants, but he’s always reading those ridiculous romance novels.”

Ciri opens her mouth like she’s about to say something but Jaskier meets her eyes and gives a slight, yet firm, shake of his head. Haine doesn’t notice, his eyes staring into nothing as he continues to talk, “He walks around like something out of a dream, half the time I’m not even sure he’s really there. I tease him sometimes; tell him he must have been conjured up by some sorceress. Black ink for his hair, snow for his skin... ”

His eyes find Jaskier’s, and all of sudden he’s reaching towards Jaskier with his other hand, fingertips brushing his cheek. 

“Oceans for eyes.”

Jaskier swallows hard, pulling back his own hand, “Lord Haine – ”

Haine catches his wrist as he attempts to retreat, grip painfully tight on Jaskier’s already bruised and raw skin, and Jaskier barely has time to wince before he’s being dragged to his feet by the grip.

“Jaskier!” Ciri jumps up from her seat as well, only to be caught by the guards.

“Just what did you hope to accomplish?” Haine snarls, spittle flying from his lips, as he hauls Jaskier closer, “Did you want to make me beg, plead with you to come back like some lovesick fool?”

“Get – your hands – just – fuck off!” Jaskier tries to twist out of the grip uselessly, his wrists crying out in protest at the attempts. He can see Ciri still trying to fight her way over to him, kicking and flailing against the guards holding her back.

“Or did you think I wouldn’t find you?” Haine continues like he doesn’t hear him, eyes alight with a mad gleam, “Did you really think I’d – ”

Jaskier brings his heel down on Haine’s foot, and either the pain or the shock of it, though Jaskier fervently hopes it’s the former, makes Haine’s grip on Jaskier’s wrist loosen. It lets Jaskier twist himself free and he takes a few steps backwards as Haine grabs the edge of the table for balance, cursing loudly.

“For fucks sake,” Jaskier snaps, cradling his wrist in his hand, “hasn’t anyone ever told you not to drink if you can’t hold your – ”

The blow comes as more of a surprise than it should, a vicious backhand that leaves Jaskier’s face screaming in agony. The force of it knocks him to the ground, and past the stinging, Jaskier can feel something warm and wet on his cheek.

_“Jaskier!”_

Ciri’s scream pierces the room, the décor that Jaskier had been pretending to admire rattling violently. It also seems to cut through Haine’s alcoholic haze, the man staring down at Jaskier as if he has no idea how he got there.

He recovers quickly however, face shuttering as he barks orders to his guards, “Get them out of here, now!”

Jaskier feels hands haul him up and away, and he wonders if perhaps the blow was harder than he thought because he blinks and suddenly, they’re back in that guest room – Ciri hovering over him worriedly.

“Jaskier, are you alright?”

Jaskier gives a soft groan as she presses a wet rag to his cheek, enjoying the cool relief it offers his stinging skin, “You tell me. How bad is it?”

“His ring cut your cheek,” Ciri tells him, and starts to use the cloth to clean out the cut, which is a far less pleasurable experience, “And it’s going to be bruised. Badly.”

Jaskier tries to shrug, and winces when the motion pulls at his wrists, bound again in that damn rope, “Lucky I’m not giving a performance any time soon.”

Ciri doesn’t say anything, just keeps cleaning the cut, and Jaskier realizes that her hands are trembling.

“Hey,” Jaskier tries to catch his gaze with hers, “you alright? They didn’t hurt you or anything, did they?”

Ciri lowers the rag from his face, still avoiding his gaze and Jaskier’s heart jumps into his throat, panic clawing at his lungs.

“Ciri – ”

In a blur of motion, Ciri rushes forward, wrapping her arms around Jaskier and clinging to him tightly. She buries her face in his chest, voice so quiet that he almost can’t hear her.

“I want him dead.”

Jaskier inhales a sharp breath, “Ciri – ”

“Geralt should have killed them all,” Ciri clings to him tighter, “but him – he deserves it more than anyone else.”

Jaskier closes his eyes, breathing in deeply through his nose. Gods knows that he agrees with Ciri, wants to see their pain matched for pain. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth style.

“You’re right,” Jaskier says, head tilted back and staring at the ceiling, “he does deserve it. But I’m not so sure Geralt deserves to be the one to kill him.”

Ciri doesn’t say anything for a long while, the two of them sitting in silence together, and then Jaskier hears her sobbing.

“It’s not fair,” Ciri shakes her head, “why does Destiny leave people like... like _him_ alone, but my parents – my grandmother – ”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier tells her, tilting his head down to press his lips to the top of her head, wishing he could hold her back just as tight as she’s holding him, “I don’t know.”

She falls asleep like that, still in the borrowed dress, and Jaskier stares at the ceiling and prays, really prays, for the first time in a very, _very_ , long time. He prays to every and any god that will listen – begging the divine to send Geralt back to them.

* * *

“Didn’t peg you for a flower man.”

The little garden is overflowing with them, at least ten different kinds arranged immaculately throughout the space. Their vibrant colours stand in stark contrast to the grey, dingy cobblestones of the castle – like the one bright spot in a sea of darkness.

Haine turns from where he’s fondling a white rose, “Milos’ work, not mine.”

“Ah,” Jaskier gives the garden another glance, “so, planning to bludgeon me to death with a peony?”

Haine gives a nod, and the guards flanking Jaskier retreat, leaving he and Haine standing there alone; Jaskier’s hands still tied behind his back.

“I wanted to apologize for my actions at dinner last night,” Haine walks towards him, “I had far too much to drink, and was not myself. I’ll hope you’ll give me the chance to redeem myself at tonight’s dinner.”

“Depends,” Jaskier raises an eyebrow, “are you actually giving us a choice?”

Haine’s lips pull into a humourless smile, and he reaches out and cups Jaskier’s chin, turning his face to the side to examine his handiwork, “I see the damage is not as great as I feared.”

Jaskier’s entire left cheek is a brilliant purple, infused with blue and red hues, and the cut serves as a thick and angry dark red line through it. The skin is swollen and aches something terrible, and it taken several minutes to master talking without pausing to wince as the movement of his lips pulled at the injury. Ciri’s face had gone white when she saw it, hands curled into fists, and despite Jaskier’s best efforts, nothing would ease the tension from her shoulders. 

Haine meets Jaskier’s eyes, “About Milos, and my daughter, I don’t want you to misunderstand – ”

“Oh, no, no need to explain,” Jaskier shakes his head, “I understand perfectly.”

Haine works to keep his face neutral, “You do?”

“Of course. After all, ” Jaskier shrugs, “I’ve traveled with Geralt long enough to know a monster when I see one.”

Haine shoves his face away like it had burnt him, face turning an ugly red as it scrunches up into a snarl, “You have no idea of what you speak – ”

“Do yourself a favour,” Jaskier cuts him off, keeping his tone bored, “save the self-righteous speeches for someone who actually cares.”

Haine’s hands clench into fists and Jaskier laughs, the hard and bitter sound echoing around them. “What? Going to hit me again? Prove my point for me?”

For a moment, it looks as though Haine might. But then he seems to get a hold of himself, nostrils flaring as he forces his fists to unclench and nods towards the guards.

They rush forward again, grabbing Jaskier’s shoulders as Haine looks down at him through his nose, “You’d better pray that your witcher brings my people back soon.”

“Actually, I think I’ll spend my time praying that he doesn’t,” Jaskier tells him, keeping his voice light, “no one, not even the vilest of monsters, deserves you.”

Haine turns his back before Jaskier can see if the vein in his temple will jump one more time, snarling out over his shoulder, “Take him away.”

Jaskier lets them manhandle him away from the garden, listening as Haine attempts to take his rage out on the roses; the mighty lord howling in pain when he forgets about their thorns. 

* * *

They’re back in borrowed clothes again come nightfall, sitting across from each other as Haine tears into his meal in silence. Ciri’s dress is a soft blue with small round white buttons and does nothing to disguise either the tension in her shoulders, or the way it ratchets up another few notches every time Haine moves in Jaskier’s general direction. Jaskier’s own clothes are cream coloured, with a golden daisy pattern on the doublet, and every time he feels the fabric brush against his skin the itch to tear them off gets that much more unbearable.

Just when Jaskier feels that he can’t stand it anymore, the door to the room swings open and Leszek rushes in, offering a bow so low that it nearly knocks him off balance.

“Apologies for the interruption, my lord, but the witcher has returned.”

The sentence is barely out of his mouth before Geralt is walking into the room, and the sight of him whole and hale overwhelms Jaskier with a dizzying relief. It seems to soothe Ciri as well, the tension finally easing from her shoulders as she stares up at him, a smile pulling at her lips as she moves to stand. Some tension seems to leave Geralt as well as he looks at her, only to come back threefold as he turns his gaze to Jaskier, eyes widening and then hardening when they find the bruise on his face.

“Geralt,” Jaskier moves to stand as well, the name more of a breath than a word –

Haine’s hand reaches out and catches his wrist, digging in cruelly right over where the rope left its mark, and Jaskier grits his teeth as he’s tugged back into his seat.

“Not so fast,” Haine keeps his gaze locked on Geralt, and Ciri reluctantly retakes her seat as well, “I believe our deal was my people for yours, and yet here you stand... alone.”

Haine pulls a dagger from beneath the table, balancing it on its point as he continues his staring match with Geralt, “Care to explain yourself?”

Geralt holds Haine’s gaze for a moment before sliding off the pack slung over his shoulder, leaning down to draw something out of it before standing again. He makes his way over to the end of the table closest to him and opposite the three of them, meeting Haine’s eyes again before speaking.

“They’re dead.”

The words echo in Jaskier’s head, bouncing around the walls of his mind before really sinking in. And when they do, his stomach sinks with them, chest cold and hollowed out by the realization.

Haine seems to be having trouble reconciling it too, staring at Geralt uncomprehendingly, “What?”

“Dead,” Geralt repeats, making as much effort to soften the blow the second time around as he had the first, “attacked on the road by a pack of wolves.”

He places the things he’d pulled from the pack on the table, revealing them to be the remains of what used to be a well-made doll, now torn and stained an awful red, and a ring, silver beneath the dried blood rusted onto it.

“This was all that was left.”

Haine stares at the items, and from the utterly lost look in his eyes, Jaskier knows that their owners are the same people their fancy clothes are borrowed from. It makes the fabric seem too tight, suffocating Jaskier, and Ciri’s hands are clenched so hard they’re trembling.

“I found your people,” Geralt’s own eyes are unmoved as he stares at Haine, “now let mine go.”

“Found?” Haine lets out a humourless laugh, still staring at the items, “As far as I recall, the deal was that you _return_ them to me,” he raises his eyes to meet Geralt’s, “seems only fair I return yours to you in the same state that you returned mine.”

And then Haine lunges at Jaskier, dagger in hand.

_“No!”_

The scream comes with all the force of a hurricane, pushing them all backwards as the décor, table, tapestries, trifles and all, are hauled into the air; swirling around the eye of the storm.

Ciri.

Jaskier tries to squint through the vicious wind to see her, head tipped back as her mouth moves with words that make the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. The guards seem to have been knocked out by the initial blast, lying still and useless next to the door, and Haine seems much the same, curled up in the far corner of the room. Geralt is the only one still standing, left foot behind him and arm raised to brace himself against the magic.

“Ciri!” Jaskier hollers, but it gets torn from his lungs and lost in the swirl of the winds, so he tries to crawl closer, “Ciri, it’s alright! Stop!”

Geralt forces himself forwards as well, making much more progress than Jaskier, and soon he’s standing just beneath Ciri. He extends his hand, mouth moving with a word that Jaskier can’t hear, but he feels the frisson of more magic pass over his skin, and in an instant the hurricane is no more –

– and Ciri is falling.

“Ciri!”

Geralt catches her before the warning scream is halfway out of Jaskier’s mouth, and were Jaskier not already on his hands and knees he would have collapsed with the sheer relief that floods him.

Instead, he pushes himself to his feet shakily, stumbling over to the two of them and catching himself on Geralt’s shoulder. And were Geralt anything other than himself, Jaskier would have sent the three of them into the nearest wall. As it is, Geralt supports him easily, giving him the chance to steady himself as he peers anxiously down at Ciri. 

“Is she – ?”

“She’s fine,” Geralt’s voice is a low rumble next to his ear, and Jaskier cannot believe it’s possible to have missed a person this much, “but she’ll be asleep for the next hour or so.”

Jaskier lets out a deep breath, hand shaking as he moves to brush a few stray hairs from Ciri’s sleeping face, “Thank the gods.”

“And you?”

Jaskier looks up to meet Geralt’s eyes, confused, before he remembers the bruise, “Oh, this?” He gestures to it with a vague wave of his hand and a shrug, “Nothing to worry about, I’ve hurt myself worse falling out of bed. Now,” he holds his arms out expectantly, “why don’t you give her to me and we’ll get the hell out of this godsforsaken place?”

Geralt looks like he might try and push the issue, but eventually decides against it, shifting Ciri in his arms as he prepares to hand her over –

– And that’s when Jaskier sees Haine, dagger raised in hand and aiming right for Geralt and Ciri.

“Geralt!”

Jaskier’s body is moving before he realizes he’s made the decision and all of a sudden, he’s standing in front of Haine with a dagger embedded in his chest.

Haine’s eyes go wide as they meet his and he lets go of the dagger, stumbling backwards as his mouth frames a name that isn’t Jaskier’s, and then he’s turning and fleeing from the room; leaving Jaskier standing there with cream doublet steadily turning dark red.

_“Jaskier!”_

Hands catch him as he falls, lowering him carefully to the ground and batting his own hands away when he tries to pull the dagger from his chest.

“Don’t move it – just – ” Geralt’s face is hovering above his own, hands pressed to Jaskier’s chest to try and stop the bleeding but Jaskier can’t feel anything beyond the coldness slowly and surely spreading through him.

He turns his head, looking for Ciri, and sees her lying next to him, eyes still closed in blissful sleep, and smiles. Glad that she’s safe.

Glad they’re both safe.

“Jaskier,” it sounds like Geralt has been trying to get his attention for a while, voice harsh despite the tremor sown through it, “I need you to stay with me.”

Jaskier tries to laugh, but it’s cut off with a choked moan of pain, and he can taste copper in his mouth, “You can always... _ask_.”

“Jaskier – ”

“Do you... ” Jaskier looks up at him, a bittersweet smile twisting his lips, “do you know why I did it? Why I stayed?”

Geralt looks down at him, face so open and... and so scared. More scared than Jaskier’s ever seen him before, and Jaskier wonders if it’s because of all the blood leaving his chest or the words finally about to leave his lips.

“I... ” Jaskier brings his hand up to Geralt’s face, cradling it gently, “I love you, Geralt, fool of Rivia.”

And then he brings their lips together.

The kiss only lasts a moment, but it feels like all the emotions Jaskier’s ever tried to hold back, ever had to swallow down, rush forth from him. Leaving his heart feeling lighter than it has in a very, very long time.

Jaskier breaks it first, smiling sadly against Geralt’s lips, “Sorry I can’t this time.”

Geralt catches Jaskier’s hand as it drops from his face, but the pressure of it feels far away, distant, overwhelmed by the darkness creeping in on the edges of Jaskier’s vision.

“Jaskier – ”

His name on Geralt’s lips is the last thing he hears before that darkness finally swallows him whole. And the last thought he has is that, perhaps, in this world full of gnawing teeth and poison smiles, dying beside the people he loves most in the world isn’t the worst way to go.


	6. Chapter 6

The first thought he has when he opens his eyes, is that heaven looks a lot a room in a very high, very old tower.

The second, is that Yennefer looks just as ferociously beautiful as when he last saw her.

“Ah,” Her lips twist into a smirk as she turns back to grinding herbs, “back with us, then?”

Jaskier’s in the middle of swallowing the dryness from his throat so he can reply when he feels something shift to his left. He turns to see Ciri stirring from where she’s kneeling on the floor, head resting on the side of the bed, his hand clutched tightly in her own. She raises her head, eyes blinking blearily before coming into focus with an almost audible snap.

“Jaskier!” She rushes forward, crawling up onto the bed and hugging him so tightly it hurts.

“Hey,” Jaskier’s voice is teasing, despite its roughness from the lack of use, but he hugs her back just as tight, “I take it you didn’t miss me that much then?”

Ciri doesn’t answer, just squeezes tighter, and Jaskier thinks if she keeps this up then his ribs might crack beneath the pressure.

“Okay, enough of that,” Yennefer calls, walking over and pressing a vial of something into Jaskier’s hand, “or all my hard work will be for nothing.”

Ciri moves so she’s sitting next to Jaskier on the bed, and Jaskier shifts his attention to the vial, eyeing it dubiously, “What is it?”

“Something to make sure you stay in the land of the living,” Yennefer tells him, rolling her eyes when he uncorks it and gags at the horrendous smell, “if it smelt good it wouldn’t be so damn effective.” 

Jaskier makes a face but forces himself to chug the foul liquid, nearly spitting it back up again but managing to keep it down with a low groan, “Fuck.”

“Rather tame compared to other responses I’ve heard,” Yennefer remarks, taking the empty vial back from him.

Jaskier shakes his head to try and clear the cobwebs from his mind, glancing around the room, “Where are we?”

“Kaer Morhen, in Geralt's room,” Ciri answers, drawing his attention back to her, “Yen teleported us here from the castle.”

“I was supposed to arrive to your little showdown earlier, but Geralt’s message reached me late,” Yennefer says, making her way back over to her supplies, “you’re lucky I got there in time to keep your heart beating.” 

Jaskier presses a hand over his chest, looking for a mark to show the point where the dagger pierced him, and finding nothing. His face no longer feels swollen either, and he’s fairly certain were he to look in a mirror he would find it as unmarred as his chest.

“There’s no scar,” Ciri nods towards Yennefer, “Yen thought you probably wouldn’t want one.”

“Ah, right,” Jaskier glances at Yennefer, coughing awkwardly, “Thanks. For that.”

Yennefer shrugs, “Figured you wouldn’t be able to pull it off.”

She sweeps from the room without another word, leaving Jaskier staring after her and reluctantly admiring her grace once again.

“I’m sorry.”

Ciri’s eyes are lowered when Jaskier turns back to her, and her grip on his hand is almost painfully tight, “If I hadn’t – if I hadn’t lost control you – ”

“Would have been stabbed a hell of a lot quicker,” Jaskier gives her hand a gentle squeeze, “You saved me, Ciri. Pretty sure that means I owe you another song, at least.”

Ciri gives a small laugh, but her eyes are watery when she raises them to Jaskier’s, “I thought you’d never wake up. It’s – it’s been _days_ and I – ”

“Hey, shh,” Jaskier soothes, drawing her back into a hug, “you really think I’d leave my best critic bereft of my future works?”

This time Ciri’s laugh is mingled with a sob, and she buries her face in his shoulder. And for a while they stay like that, sitting quietly together as Ciri lets Jaskier hold her close and gently strokes her back.

Eventually, she lifts her head, running a hand over his face and giving him a tight, but genuine smile, “I’ll go tell Geralt you’re awake. He’ll want to see you too.”

“Ah, well, actually,” Jaskier starts, but Ciri is already pushing off the bed and fleeing out of the room, “hold on, just one – Ciri!”

The door closes behind her with a definitive bang, and Jaskier is left alone if the room with his hand still awkwardly outstretched to stop someone who’s no longer there.

He lets the hand drop back onto the bed with a sigh, staring up at the high ceiling of the room and trying not to remember the press of Geralt’s lips against his, and the words that had come just before.  
  
 _I love you_

With a groan, he throws his arm over his eyes, wishing fervently that the bed will suddenly gain sentience and decide to swallow him whole.

* * *

“Are you trying to kill yourself?”

Yennefer sounds more exasperated than curious, so Jaskier just offers her a shrug as he continues to stare at the view from the room’s balcony, “Needed some fresh air. Besides, thanks to your hard work I look good as new.”

“ _Look_ being the operative word,” Yennefer says, and Jaskier can practically hear her eyeroll, “I repaired the wound, but I didn’t pump you full of all the blood you lost, and I’d rather you not keel over the balcony and splatter my _hard work_ all over the courtyard.”

There’s some rustling and then a pause before she speaks again, “Where’s Ciri?”

“She left to go get Geralt.”

“How long – ”

“This morning.”

Jaskier closes his eyes and lets the sun’s dying rays wash over his skin, the sunset over the mountains is the kind that he would write sonnets about if his chest had room for anything other than the sharp ache in it. The desire for the bed to swallow him whole from before had given way to an anticipatory itch, causing him to pace the floor relentlessly for a few hours, before settling into a slowly dawning realization that _this_ is Geralt’s answer.

Given that it’s the same answer he always knew it’d be, it really has no right to hurt as much as it does.

A hand gently tugs on his arm, and Jaskier looks up to see Yennefer standing next to him, her eyes full of a softness he never thought he’d see directed at him.

“Come on, you need rest.”

Jaskier huffs out a humourless laugh, but lets her tug him back into the room and place a hand on his lower back to help support him, “Three days of sleep isn’t enough?” 

“Not even close,” Yennefer quips, setting him down on the bed and pressing the back of her hand to his forehead, “how are you feeling? Any dizziness, nausea?”

“Not since you made me drink that gods-awful concoction,” Jaskier tells her, and she rolls her eyes before pushing him down on the bed and pulling the blankets over him.

Jaskier fully expects her to leave as soon as she’s got him tucked back in, but she surprises him by sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him carefully.

He raises an eyebrow at her, “You’re not going to take your top off again, are you?”

This time, he sees when Yennefer rolls her eyes, “You wish.”

“Actually, I’m quite happy with us keeping our tits to ourselves,” Jaskier tells her, shrugging, “Who knows? We might get on better that way.”

Yennefer’s lips twitch into a half smile, “Perhaps, though I fear it may be a bit too late for that where we’re concerned.”

Jaskier gives another shrug, “I’m willing to discount life or death and/or magic scenarios if you are.”

Yennefer surprises him by laughing, “Deal.”

Another silence settles over the two of them, a little less awkward than the last, and Jaskier finds that he might even be the slightest bit comfortable with it.

“I wanted to thank you,” Yennefer says, eyes full of that softness from before, “for staying with her, making sure she was alright. For... saving her. It was... brave of you.”

Jaskier snorts, “Hardly. I only did it because... ”

He struggles to speak around the sudden dryness in his throat, swallowing down the impulse to break the seriousness that has settled between them with a joke, and instead answering honestly. Maybe to try and repay for Yennefer stitching him back to life, maybe because he needs to tell someone about it – someone that cares as much as he does. Someone that will truly understand when he tells them that he didn’t do it out of some deluded sense of noble sacrifice and honour, he did it –

“Because the alternative scared me a hell of a lot more.”

Yennefer meets his eyes, and he knows that he chose the right someone.

She reaches forward, and he barely has time to close his eyes before her hand is placed over them, and she’s murmuring a low stream of words that make his hair stand on end, magic dancing across his skin. And all of the emptiness, the disappointment, the hurt, is replaced by a bone deep sleepiness that drags him further and further into its embrace by the second.

He’s aware of her taking her hand from his face, but he can’t bring himself to open his eyes again. Instead, he just gives a soft murmur that he hopes she can translate into something resembling a thank you.

* * *

“You look good for a dead man.”

This time, Jaskier almost does fall off the balcony; only saved by the owner of the voice next to his ear wrapping an arm around his waist.

“For gods sake, Lambert,” Jaskier grips the edge of the balcony to steady himself, and to try and convince his heart to stop trying to leap out of his chest, “can’t you just _knock_ like a normal person?”

Lambert shrugs, waiting a moment more to make sure Jaskier is steady before withdrawing the arm around his waist, “Sounds boring.”

“I’m trying to remind myself that I did actually miss you,” Jaskier rolls his eyes, “though for the life of me I can’t remember why.” 

Lambert grins, giving Jaskier’s shoulder a playful nudge, “My devilish good looks and roguish charm?”

“I have a mirror for that.”

Lambert laughs, and Jaskier turns to face him fully with a genuine smile before pulling him into a hug, “It’s good to see you again.”

Lambert returns the hug, giving Jaskier a gentle squeeze, “It’s good to see you too. Though, it seems like you didn’t take my advice.”

“I did,” Jaskier protests, “I made sure to keep Geralt between me and any wyverns. How was I to know they weren’t the monsters I needed to watch out for?”

“Common sense?” Lambert suggests.

Jaskier shrugs, “Never heard of her.”

Lambert chuckles, and the two pull back from the hug, Lambert gripping Jaskier’s shoulder affectionately as his soft smile gives way to something more serious.

“How are you?”

“Perfect,” Jaskier shrugs, “no scar or anything. It’s like it never happened.”

Lambert hums thoughtfully, letting go of Jaskier’s shoulder and glancing around the room before returning his gaze to Jaskier, “Geralt been by?”

“No,” Jaskier rests his forearms on the balcony railing, nodding his head towards the courtyard below, “from what I can tell, he’s been spending more of his time training Ciri.”

Lambert steps closer to the railing, peering down at the scene Jaskier has been watching for the past hour or so. Ciri pirouetting away from blows and pouncing on any openings Geralt leaves open for her, their wooden swords meeting and retreating from each other constantly.

These sessions have been the only glimpses he’s caught of Geralt in the past few days, just flashes of his white hair and the glare of his armour as its metal catches the winter sun.

“I told him I loved him.”

It slips out from his lips before he really has time to think about it, and as soon as it’s free all the feelings that have been festering within him these past few days rush forth as well.

“There were all these times,” Jaskier says, “when I thought that – that he might just – that maybe he – ”

Jaskier laughs, low and quiet and small, “But I didn’t say anything because I was always... scared. Scared that what I was seeing wasn’t... ”

He trails off, staring down at the courtyard below, “Turns out I was right. No matter what I do, no matter how much I... _care_ , it’s never going to be me. It’s always going to be _her_.”

Below, Yennefer walks across the courtyard and Geralt stops their training to greet her, Ciri bounding over and taking to her animatedly.

“And it was a hell of a lot easier,” Jaskier looks up at Lambert, a bitter smile twisting his lips, “when I could just hate her for that. But now... ”

Jaskier shakes his head, pushing himself up from the balcony, “I don’t... I don’t know what to do.”

Lambert is still beside him, and Jaskier waits for him to offer awkward words or even more awkward silence.

Instead Lambert grabs his forearm and propels the two of them back into the room.  
  
“Hang on, what are you – ?”

“Breaking you out of here,” Lambert lets go of Jaskier’s arm and walks over to the dresser to grab Jaskier’s pack and lute, “you can stay with me from now on. You got anything else or is this it?”

“That’s it – ” Jaskier answers automatically, cutting himself off when he finally realizes what’s going on, “Hang on. Lambert, you don’t have to – ”

“Already done. Now,” Lambert grins at him, “think you can make it on your own, or should I carry you too?”

“I was stabbed in the _chest_ , not the _leg_.”

“I’m not hearing a no.”

“Are you seriously – wait, stop – ” Lambert advances towards him and Jaskier throws up his hands to hold him at bay, the action startling a laugh out of him, “ – I can walk.”

Lambert smirks at him, nodding at the door, “Prove it.”

Jaskier glares at him and makes a point of walking out of the room and down the stairs to Lambert’s room with a grace and elegance that would have made his propriety instructor proud. Of course, Mr. Adaš probably would have been less impressed with the way Jaskier collapses on the bed when they arrive, exhausted by the effort. But thankfully, the only one there with him is Lambert, who decides not to comment on it and instead collapses on the bed next to him; the two of them lying there and exchanging tales of the past few months for hours.  
  
And for the first time in days, Jaskier feels just that little bit normal again.

* * *

“Remind me why we’re supposed to be impressed by this?” Yennefer murmurs, raising an eyebrow when Geralt narrowly avoids being stabbed by Eskel’s blade. 

Jaskier shrugs, “Something about showing secret skills to outsiders?”

“Be nice if they were skilled in areas other than the sword.”

“Such as?”

“Fashion, for one,” Yennefer sends him a smirk, “I’m pretty sure they haven’t changed their style once in the past hundred years.”

“I’d say they haven’t even changed their clothes in that long.”

Jaskier laughs when Yennefer’s nose wrinkles at the thought.

“Are you two here to watch, or chatter?”

Jaskier turns back to the courtyard, where the rest of the training has stopped so that Vesemir can glare at the two of them without distraction. Ciri is smirking at them, probably thrilled to bits that someone other than her is on the receiving end of her _uncle’s_ ire. Lambert has a similar expression, and Eskel looks a cross between annoyed and amused. As for Geralt, Jaskier can feel his gaze but can’t bring himself to meet it, focusing on avoiding Vesemir’s instead.

“If _chatter_ is out of the question, then perhaps it’s time I retreated to explore some more academic pursuits,” Yennefer pushes herself up from the wall she and Jaskier had been leaning against, “thank you for the privilege of observing... this.”

Vesemir doesn’t answer, his narrowed eyes following her as she makes her way from the courtyard, and Jaskier thinks perhaps that witcher hearing of his was able to make out some of their conversation above the clang of metal. He quickly hides his smile at the thought when Vesemir turns back to him, raising his hands placatingly.

Thankfully, it seems to do the trick, because Vesemir turns back to the others with a grunt, “Geralt, you’re with Ciri. Eskel, with me. Lambert, the dummy.”

“Aren’t you a little old to be name-calling?” Lambert drawls, smirking.

Vesemir rolls his eyes, “The _wooden_ dummy. Go practice with it.”

“Seems a waste to spend time on a dummy when there’s a perfectly good sparring partner right there,” Lambert turns to Jaskier, grinning, “what do you say, Jas?”

Jaskier snorts, “I say you’re better off with the dummy.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Lambert tugs Jaskier forward, dragging him to the far end of the training field next to where Vesemir and Eskel are getting into position, “I promise to go easy on you.”

“Then what skill are you testing?” Jaskier asks.

Lambert offers him a training sword, metal, not wood, with a grin. “Vesemir’s patience.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, but takes the sword anyway, “I get the feeling it’s survived worse than you.”

“That’s cause I’m just getting started,” Lambert tells him, darting forward with a blow that Jaskier fumbles to block.

Lambert draws back, still grinning, “Hey, you’re better than I thought you’d be.”

“I’m atrocious,” Jaskier says, clumsily blocking another blow before rushing forward with one of his own only for Lambert to dodge it easily, “I’m a bard, not a fighter. The only kind of metal I use to solve problems is my silver tongue.”

“Please,” Lambert laughs, rushing forth with another swing of his sword for Jaskier to block, “I’ve been in enough bar fights with you to know that’s not true. Remember when you grabbed that jug – ”

“That was self-defence!” Jaskier protests.

“Or when you broke off that tankard handle – ”

“Self. Defence.”

“And that knockout punch you gave?”

Jaskier pauses. “Well, he deserved it.”

“True,” Lambert smirks, “but I didn’t deserve you whining about how sore your hand was for the next three days.”

“It hurt!” Jaskier protests, hurrying to fend off another attack as Lambert presses forward again, “besides, you were just as bad when you got that splinter – ”

“It was a _stake_ – ”

“Details.”

“Alright, professor,” Lambert rolls his eyes, “calm down. I’m only trying to give you a compliment for being able hold my attention for so long.”

Lambert presses forward, locking their blades together so that they’re close enough for him to whisper the next words, “And it looks like it’s not just _my_ attention you’re holding.”

Jaskier follows Lambert’s gaze to the left, and his eyes meet Geralt’s for the first time in a week.

It’s only for a second, Geralt quickly turning back to Ciri and continuing their own practice duel with the wooden swords, but it makes Jaskier’s heart ache so much it takes his breath away. And when that breath is returned, it feeds the spark of anger at the reminder of Geralt’s apparent solution to his problems. To ignore them, ignore Jaskier, until it, or he, goes away. And that spark soon becomes a full-on bonfire.

Jaskier pushes back against Lambert, trying to channel that anger into some level of skill with a sword, and feeling slightly vindicated when Lambert breaks the sword-lock. Lambert steps back, raising his sword in a clear signal of his incoming attack, and Jaskier moves to block him –

– only to lose his footing on a stray pebble and drop his guard entirely.

There’s the sound of fabric tearing and a sting of pain, and suddenly Jaskier is staring at his shoulder in despair, a thin red line on his skin and a huge rip in his shirt.

“Lambert, you utter cock,” Jaskier pulls at the torn fabric mournfully, “this was one of my favourite shirts.”

“Shouldn’t have dropped your guard then,” Lambert tells him, but his face is a little pale, and Jaskier thinks he might have been very close to having something more vital than his arm injured.

He decides to distract both of them on from the thought with another groan, “Gods, there’s blood on it and everything – I told you this was a bad idea – ”

“Actually, you never said – ”

“Unless the next words out of your mouth have to do with getting rid of bloodstains or the secret to seamless fabric repair, I don’t want to hear them.”

“Here, let me see,” Vesemir grabs Jaskier’s arm, and Jaskier nearly jumps out of his skin because he didn’t hear him walk over – or even stop training.

In fact, the others have stopped training as well, Eskel standing behind Vesemir with his arms crossed over his chest and leveling Lambert with a look. Lambert, for his part, is pretending that he can’t see said look, instead taking Jaskier’s sword from him and putting it back with the others. Jaskier catches a glimpse of Ciri peering at him anxiously from over by Geralt, and he feels a stab of guilt pierce his chest deeper than any sword could.

“So,” Jaskier coughs, forcing his eyes back to Vesemir, “will I live?”

Vesemir lets go of Jaskier’s arm with an eyeroll, “For today at least. You’ll need some herbs to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

“Ah,” Jaskier can already see the look Yennefer will give him, “is there any chance you could just... tell me what herbs I need? Or better yet, give them to me? Without telling Yennefer?” Vesemir gives him a look of his own, and Jaskier nods, “Right, well... ”

Lambert grins at him, “I could always kiss it better for you if you’d like.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow at Lambert, “Unless those lips of yours can repair shirts as well, keep them off me.”

“You know what they say,” Lambert’s eyes are full of mirth as he sneaks a hand around Jaskier’s waist, pulling him closer, “you never know until you – ” 

A loud splintering sound echoes through the courtyard, and Jaskier’s head turns a fraction slower than the rest of them, just in time to see Geralt’s back disappear through an archway. Jaskier casts his eyes about looking for clues as to the cause of the sound until he sees the wooden practice sword Geralt was using with Ciri lying on the ground in several shattered pieces.

Jaskier moves before he can really think about it, pushing away from Lambert and running through that archway too; ignoring the calls from the others.

Geralt has a decent head start on him, Jaskier only able to catch flashes of white hair and armour as the courtyard and stone walls give way to bark and branches; the last of the dying leaves still clinging to life against their inevitable doom.

Finally, Jaskier pushes through to a clearing, the cliff at the edge of it serving as a, quite literal, dead end. Geralt stands a few paces from it, gloved hands clenched at his sides.

“Well,” Jaskier steps further into the clearing, “at least we don’t have to worry about splinters.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, his back still turned to Jaskier.

“I see your selective deafness is rearing its head again,” Jaskier continues to close the distance between them, “We really ought to get that seen to.”

Silence is once again his only answer and all of sudden, any trepidation Jaskier had about this exact scenario fades away – but so does the anger. Leaving only the bone-deep hurt.

“I don’t deserve this,” Jaskier shakes his head, his words sharp and bitter, “I deserve – so much fucking more than this.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath, “But I know... I know these kinds of things are hard for you. So, let me just – look, I know it’s always going to be Yennefer for you, because Destiny has tied you two together with her lovely romantic golden thread or whatever, which is all mushy and wonderful and why I didn’t tell you until I was _literally_ dying. And I can get how all this is awkward for you; after all, the point of deathbed confessions is that the person confessing _actually_ dies afterwards. But that doesn’t mean you can go around pretending that I don’t exist, like I’m some sort of – of bug that will go away so long as you ignore it. I deserve an answer – I deserve – ”

He cuts himself off, trying and failing to keep his voice steady, “I _need_ you to talk to me. And if – if you – if after everything we’ve been through together you still can’t do this for me, then – ”

Jaskier fights against the urge to swallow his next words, walk away and let this all go back to the way it used to be. Back to forced smiles and pretending his heart isn’t trying to leap out of his chest with every second breath, back to forcing his hands to remain at his sides instead of reaching out and brushing against any and all skin that he can reach, back to pretending he doesn’t want to know what Geralt’s lips taste like. Because he does know, and he is so very, _very_ , tired of pretending.

“Then this is the last time I follow you anywhere.”

The wind rattles the dead branches, a cold chill blown down from the north and carrying the promise of future snow. Jaskier stands there and lets it cut through his too-thin clothes, waiting for Geralt to turn around.

But he doesn’t.

So Jaskier turns around instead, starting back towards the keep, not even bothering to convince himself that it’s the wind making his eyes sting so viciously.

“They weren’t dead.”

Jaskier stops, but doesn’t turn around. “What are you – ?”

“The head of house and the daughter,” Geralt is facing him now, Jaskier can see as much out of his peripheral vision, “I found them. Fleeing him. They begged me to let them go.”

Jaskier turns to face him, body still angled partially towards the keep, and lets out a quiet laugh, more soft wonder and breath than humour. “You faked their deaths so they could get away.”

Geralt nods.

Jaskier closes his eyes, steadying himself against the dizzying relief, “Thank the gods.”

“He was supposed to let you go.”

“Yes, well,” Jaskier opens his eyes and finds Geralt’s with a wry grin, “that’s the problem with humans. Monstrous or not, they’re always unpredictable.”

“He would have let you go if I brought them back.”

Jaskier stares at him, “Geralt – ”

“We would have walked out of there,” Geralt walks towards him, closing the distance in sure and steady steps, “together.”

“Hang on,” Jaskier interrupts, shaking his head, “you have no way of knowing that. More likely, he would’ve had us all killed the second he got what he wanted. He seemed the type. Besides, I’m _fine_ , no scar or anything; something that you’d have known if you’d bothered to actually talk to me – ”

 _“Fine?”_ Geralt snarls, and Jaskier struggles to hold his ground as he crosses the rest of the distance between them, so they’re only inches apart though it feels like miles, “You barely breathed for three days. It took all of Vesemir’s knowledge and Yen’s magic to keep you here. And all I could do was watch you try your best each night to die, all I could smell and taste was your blood, and all I could think – ” Geralt cuts himself off, nostrils flaring. 

Jaskier swallows, trying to speak through his dry throat, “Geralt – ”

“I thought you were dead,” Geralt says flatly, “so I went after Haine. I cut through every one that raised their sword against me, and found him cowering in the corner of some bedroom. I could smell your blood on a rag, could see where drops from your wrists had hit the floor near the far wall, breathed in your scent with every fucking breath, and I – ” Geralt keeps his eyes on the ground beneath their feet, “Yen had to tear me away.”

Silence settles over them for a long moment, and Jaskier can’t make the pieces he’s been given connect.

“So, you’ve been avoiding me for the past few days because you killed someone?” Jaskier asks, brow furrowed, “Someone who, not to put too fine a point on it, was an absolutely massive wanker and deserved all that you gave him and more – ?”

“I went after him the same night,” Geralt’s hands are clenched so tightly it’s a wonder that his gloves don’t burst at the seams, “I left you, lying there in your own blood just so I could hurt him and you almost – ”

Geralt stares at Jaskier with an utter helplessness that Jaskier has never seen him with before, his voice quiet and ragged with a desperation that makes Jaskier’s heart ache.

“I nearly lost you.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier reaches for his hand, taking it gently within his own, caught between exasperation and understanding, both run through with the undercurrent of his deep and unabating love for this fool of a man, “it wasn’t your fault. You haven’t done anything wrong. Well, besides going off and brooding about all this on your own instead of just talking to me, but,” Jaskier squeezes his hand gently, “look, I’m here. Right here. You didn’t lose me. But if you had brought them back to him, you would have. Even if we’d made it out of there unscathed.”

Geralt closes his eyes, squeezing Jaskier’s hand back, “Given the choice between losing your favour and losing you forever – ”

“In this case, they’re the same, besides,” Jaskier shrugs, “given the chance to do it over again, you’d still make the same choice. You’d still help them.”

Geralt meet his eyes, “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” Jaskier gives him a soft smile, “I know you.”

It’s meant to ground Geralt, reassure him once again that he isn’t the monster that everyone, even his own mind, says he is. But Jaskier still doesn’t expect the way Geralt looks at him, like he’s adrift in the loneliest, coldest sea, and Jaskier is the only lighthouse for miles. He lets go of Jaskier’s hand, moving his own two to Jaskier’s face. He cups it gently, as though he’s holding something infinitely more precious and breakable than simple skin and bone.

“I love you.”

Jaskier sucks in a sharp breath, “Geralt – ”

“I was the one who asked Lambert where to find you,” Geralt continues, his thumbs brushing Jaskier’s cheeks tenderly, “not Ciri. I wanted to apologize, to see you again. Even if it was just a moment. But then you stayed, and I was... afraid. Afraid if I asked for more, you’d leave again.”

Jaskier stares at him, the words taking a minute to make some sort of sense, but when they do, he shakes his head, caught between laughing and crying, “Oh – ”

“I know I don’t have the right to ask,” Geralt lowers his hands from Jaskier’s face, thought it looks like it takes him a lot of willpower to do so, and takes a step back, “and I can’t promise that I won’t fuck up again. But I’ll do everything in my power not to, and to set it right when I do. So, please – ”

Geralt extends his hand to Jaskier, “Stay with me.”

Jaskier meets Geralt’s gaze for a moment before looking at the hand outstretched towards him, open, palm up, and completely vulnerable. When he can finally speak, his voice sounds almost as ragged as Geralt’s had, “Well, there are far worse fates than spending my life fucking up with you. And, all things considered – ”

He takes Geralt’s hand, gently pulling him closer, until the two of them are nearly chest to chest once again, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

For a moment they stand there, hand in hand, and then Geralt trades Jaskier’s hand for his waist, tugging him into a kiss that steals the breath from his lungs. It might have stolen the heart from his chest as well, had that not already been spoken for.

“Gods,” Jaskier pulls back from the kiss, not entirely sure if laughter or sobs are chasing his words, “what a pair of fools we make.”

“Hmm,” Geralt laughs quietly, resting his forehead against Jaskier’s, but his eyes are far from dry.

Jaskier pulls him into another kiss, wrapping his arms around Geralt and pressing them that little bit closer together, before a thought occurs to him and his heart falters, “And... Yennefer?”

“Over,” Geralt murmurs against his lips, “since the mountain.”

“Ah, well,” Jaskier shrugs, “I’d say sorry but, well, you know. I’m not.”

Geralt chuckles, a low rumble that vibrates into Jaskier’s chest, and he rests his head in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, his cold nose pressed against Jaskier’s pulse point.

“Gods, you’re freezing,” Jaskier pretends to try and shove him off, but to no avail, “at least I know you have warmer feet.”  
  
“And Lambert?”

“His are _ice blocks_ , it’s like sharing a bed with a snowman – ”

Geralt lets out a low growl, “Not what I meant.”

“Then what did you – oh,” this time, Jaskier definitely laughs, “you thought Lambert and I were – ?”

Geralt growls again, but this time Jaskier can’t make out any words in it.

“You did!” Jaskier cackles, “You were jealous – ”

“Jaskier,” Geralt accompanies the name with a nip to Jaskier’s neck.

“Alright, alright, fine,” Jaskier presses a kiss to the side of Geralt’s frowny head, “no, there’s nothing between Lambert and me.”

Geralt gives a low rumble of approval, tugging Jaskier closer to him, “Good.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, but can’t quite keep the smile off his face. “Speaking of Lambert, perhaps we could make our way back to the keep and get some herbs for the cut he gave me? And some kind of magic cleaning potion for my shirt?”

“Herbs,” Geralt agrees, pulling back from Jaskier and taking his hand, the two of them beginning their walk to the keep, “and a sword for Lambert.”

“ _Or_ , herbs and perhaps something more... _stimulating_ than a kiss to make up for my ruined shirt? ” Jaskier strokes Geralt’s hand with his thumb.

“Hmm,” And while Geralt doesn’t exactly agree to forgo the homicidal sword attack on Lambert, he does lift Jaskier’s hand to his lips and press a kiss to the back of it. Which, really, when you think about it, is almost the same thing. More or less.

* * *

“And you’re sure you’ve got everything?”

Ciri rolls her eyes, “I was sure the last time you asked.”

“Meaning you’re not anymore?” Jaskier returns, arching an eyebrow at her.

Ciri gives him a playful shove, and he laughs, drawing back from her with his hands raised placatingly. “Alright, alright, can’t fault a man for double checking.”

“What about quadruple checking?” Yennefer asks, sauntering out of the keep and into the spring chill with an impressively arched eyebrow aimed at the pair of them.

Jaskier points his finger at her accusingly. “Hypocrite. Geralt says you were just as bad last year. Worse, even.”

“And of course, Geralt has no reason at all to _lie_ ,” Yennefer drawls, walking over to stand beside Ciri.

Ciri looks up at her with a smirk, “Though, you _were_ just as bad.”

Yennefer keeps her face neutral, and Jaskier gives Ciri a grin in thanks. 

“Well,” Jaskier nods at Ciri, “I suppose this is it then, if you’re sure?”

Ciri rolls her eyes, “ _Yes_.”

“Excellent. I can, however, think of one thing that you’ve forgotten.”

Ciri’s brow furrows. “What?”

Jaskier spreads his arms open wide, “A goodbye hug.”

It takes barely a second for Ciri to fly across the courtyard into his arms, hugging him so tightly it knocks the breath from his lungs. Yet another way she takes after her father.

“You remember what I told you?” Jaskier murmurs into the top of her head, giving her a gentle squeeze, “keep Yennefer between you and anything else; even if it’s just a puppy. Lots of evil things can be hidden in a puppy. Fleas, for instance – ”

“I remember,” Ciri tells him, pulling back to give him a smile, “take care of Geralt for me?”

“A herculean task,” Jaskier sighs long sufferingly, but can’t quite keep the smile from his lips, “I’ll do my best.”

Ciri rolls her eyes, pulling him in close for one more tight hug before letting go, and Jaskier uses the time it takes her to walk back to Yennefer’s side to blink back the tears from his eyes.

Yennefer gives Ciri a questioning glance, and when Ciri responds with a nod, she draws the magic from the air around them, channeling it through her body until a glowing circular window into a field of flowers and warm sunlight appears.

Ciri ducks through the portal first, pausing to give Jaskier one last look and wave, before disappearing from sight. Jaskier watches her go, and finally allows the first tears to fall from his eyes –

“Here.”

Jaskier starts at the voice, and thus is in no shape to fight off the hand that grabs his own and presses something into it.

“What – ?”

“It’s a xenovox,” Yennefer tells him, “only modified so that people can actually communicate – instead of that old one-way nonsense. That way Ciri can talk to you whenever she wants, and the next time someone tries to put your insides on your outsides, I can help you convince them otherwise.”

“Rather bold of you to assume there’ll be a next time,” Jaskier says, turning the xenovox over in his hands. It looks near identical to Lambert’s, so clearly whoever designs these things doesn’t have much going for them in the originality department.

“Rather foolish of you to assume there won’t be.” Yennefer counters, turning and heading towards the portal as well.

“Yen,” Jaskier calls, fidgeting nervously when she pauses just before the portal, looking at him expectantly, “these things... I hear they don’t come cheap and, well – ”

“Well, perhaps you’re worth one,” Yennefer smirks, a familiar spark of mischief glinting in her violet eyes, “maybe even two.”

She steps through the portal without another glance, and it spirals shut behind her.

Jaskier stares after her for a moment, before shaking his head with a sigh and heading towards the stables.

Geralt doesn’t look up when he walks in, but Roach at least gives a soft nicker of acknowledgement. A part of Jaskier is fairly certain that has more to do with the sugar cubes in his pocket than him, but he ignores that part. Even as he offers one of the said sugar cubes to Roach with an open palm and a soft, crooning voice.

“Stop spoiling my horse,” Geralt grouses, securing the last of their gear onto Roach’s back.

“Now, Geralt,” Jaskier scolds, “don’t be jealous. There’s plenty of sugar to go around.”

Geralt shoots him a look that Jaskier answers with a shrug, patting Roach as she finishes munching on the treat. “Well, if you’re not interested, I could always see if Lambert – ”

Jaskier is tugged into a kiss that steals the rest of the words from his lips, and he pulls back with a breathless laugh. Geralt’s own lips are curved into a soft smile, and he looks down at Jaskier with a gentleness that makes him feel well and truly seen; inside and out.

Geralt rests his hands on Jaskier’s waist, keeping him close, “Ciri and Yen leave alright?”

“One quick step through a portal and into some lovely sunshine,” Jaskier shows the box to Geralt, “Yen gave us this so we can call her the next time things go tits up. And, so you can talk to Ciri when you get all broody and lonely.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow at him, “When _I_ get lonely.”

“And broody,” Jaskier reminds him, running his fingers down Geralt’s back in a way that could be seen as absentmindedly, “Though I’ll do my best to make try and keep you in a good mood.”

Geralt shifts so Jaskier is pressed against the stable wall, catching his wandering hands and pining them to his own chest with one hand, his other on Jaskier’s waist to pin the rest of him in place.

“If you keep that up,” Geralt murmurs into Jaskier’s ear, breath hot against the side of Jaskier’s neck, “we won’t be leaving until tomorrow.”

Jaskier blinks at him innocently, “Keep _what_ up? Besides, _I’m_ not the one with the supernatural libido here.”

“Hmm,” Geralt presses his lips to the side of Jaskier’s neck, “could’ve fooled me.”

“Yes, well,” Jaskier tilts his head to the side to offer Geralt better access, “self-projection can be a powerful force.”

Geralt introduces a bit of teeth into his kisses, and Jaskier fights back a truly revealing moan by biting his lip, a move that’s almost entirely negated by the way his whole body presses closer to Geralt, unfurling like a desert flower in the first rain after a drought –

“So are spring thaws,” Geralt tells him, pulling back from Jaskier’s... _everything_ and turning back to Roach, “which is why we need to leave before the paths down the mountain are drowned.”

Jaskier groans, tossing his head backwards, “You are the cruelest man I’ve ever met.”

“If you run, you can still catch up to Lambert.”

Jaskier shoots him a look and slings his lute over his back with a huff, starting towards the great wooden doors. Not quite far enough ahead of Roach and Geralt that he doesn’t hear the witcher chuckle quietly. And while his pace is determined, it’s not fast enough that Geralt can’t catch up with him. And though he keeps up the huff for a good hour or so, he still lets Geralt takes his hand, intertwining their fingers as the two head down into the new world below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter! I hope you enjoyed this. I have a couple little scenes and chapters I cut out of this that I might make into some ficlets at some point, but for now, thank you for reading :)


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